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GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 
















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i i i 

























GREATER THAN 
THE GREATEST 


BY 

HAMILTON DRUMMOND 


AUTHOR OF 

“Little Madame Claude,” “Winds of God,” “Sir Galahad 
of the Army,” “The Justice of the King,” 

“Shoes of Gold,” etc. 


NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

681 Fifth Avenue 




Printed in the United States of America 

3 $t£ 

/? 



INDEX 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. A Mean House in Malazzorbo 7 

II. Bianca Pandone Speaks Her Mind 14 

III. Rome ! 23 

IV. Alessandro Pandone Plays a Jest 35 

V. The Sfumata 46 

VI. In Old Saint Peter’s 56 

VII. Cardinal Pandone Returns from the Conclave 65 

VIII. A Family Gathering 74 

IX. Broken Bread Upon the Waters 83 

X. At a Roman Inn 90 

XI. The Procession of Pope Gregory IX 96 

XII. Rome or Malazzorbo? 107 

XIII. “Is Love Nonsense?” 117 

XIV. Gregory the Ninth 124 

XV. His Eminence Condescends a Second Time.. 133 

XVI. Alvano of the Arno Ford 141 

XVII. Through the Patrimony of Peter 151 

XVIII. Stupor Mundi 161 

XIX. The Cunning of Eve 171 

XX. At the Court of the Emperor 178 

XXI. The Splendid Dream 190 

XXII. Gardens of Paradise 198 

XXIII. Capuan Days 208 

XXIV. Flint and Steel 216 

XXV. The Advice of the Grey Friar 225 

XXVI. For the Greater Glory of God 233 

XXVII. For Love of the People 246 

XXVIII. Northward to Rome 259 

XXIX. Rome Strikes Back 267 

XXX. Cardinal Pandone is Persuaded 277 

XXXI. The Victory of the Church 284 

XXXII. The End of Doubt 295 


Of the many books read or consulted for the 
writing of “Greater than the Greatest” I desire 
to acknowledge my special debt to “Rome in 
the Middle Ages,” Gregorovius; Mr. Douglas 
Sladen’s “How to see the Vatican,” and Mr. 
Lionel AllshornY “Stupor Mundi.” 


Greater than the Greatest 

CHAPTEE I 

A Mean House in Malazzorbo 

At the mouth of the crooked village street, ill-paved and 
pitted with mud-holes, Eivara drew rein as he beckoned 
to a ragged urchin who peered from a doorway, the only 
sign of life visible in Malazzorbo. 

“Do you know where the Signorina Pandone lives, 
little son?” 

“Why, of course, signor.” Though he left the shelter 
of the doorway “little son” kept out of arm’s length, as 
if he had learned, even in his short life, that strangers 
must not be trusted too far. 

“Then guide me to the Casa and I’ll give you five sols !” 
He had meant to say two, but the rags, and the pinched 
face above the rags, stirred his good nature. 

For a moment the boy stood scratching a naked ankle 
with a naked foot as if in doubt, then a look of peculiar 
cunning lit up his dark eyes. 

“Five sols, signor ? Is it a bargain ?” 

“As man to man,” said Eivara gravely, “I swear it is 
a bargain. Go your shortest road, little son, for I am in 
haste.” 

“That’s this way, signor,” answered the boy briskly, 
and turned up the street. 

Picking up his reins Eivara followed at a foot’s pace, 
his posse of men behind him. Malazzorbo, he noticed, 

7 


8 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


had awakened. From doorways and windows to right 
and left faces looked out, unkindly faces for the most 
part, faces with fear and hate in their eyes. Rivara did 
not know it, but Malazzorbo had evil cause to remember 
the coming of armed men, and, in the narrow street his 
dozen of followers made as much noise on the cobbles 
as if they had been a troop. 

But Rivara saw neither the fear nor the hate on the 
peering, furtive faces. Having noted the birth of life, 
as a man notes trifles when his life may depend upon 
them, he had straightway forgotten it in his acute distaste 
for Malazzorbo itself. A scholar and a man of cities, a 
lover alike of wide thought and wide spaces, he loathed 
these petty, cramped villages, all alike and all sordid, all 
decaying, all repellent. Life in them was not life but 
just bare leave to live — if indeed the leave were worth the 
having in such conditions ! In his three weeks since 
quitting Rome he had seen scores of such human dust- 
heaps, each one with an increasing rise of the gorge. And 
of them all Malazzorbo seemed the most sordid, the most 
distasteful, the most repellent: not for the wealth of the 
Papacy and the Empire in one would he live in Malazzorbo. 

It was at this point in his critical survey, that is to say 
some two-thirds of the length of Malazzorbo’s one street, 
that the guide halted, pointing to a house on the southern 
cr shaded side of the road where the sun never smote, and 
where the mildew spread in blotches on the walls. 

"There, signor,” he said, and slunk back out of reach 
of the clout he knew his trick so well deserved. 

But no clout fell, and if one had fallen it would have 
been in recompense for what Rivara thought must be a 
fool’s blunder. When His Eminence, the .Cardinal of 
San Marco del Monte, whose secretary he was, had given 
his as a last instruction, "Come back by way of Malazzorbo, 
and bring my niece, the Signorina Bianca Pandone, with 


MEAN HOUSE IN MALAZZORBO 


9 


you/’ Rivara had supposed that Malazzorbo was nothing 
more than the nearest landmark to the Casa Pandone, 
and the Casa itself just such a pile, strong of wall, bas- 
tioned, betowered, beturreted, fortress and castle in one, as 
the troubled nature of the times demanded for safety. And 
here, in its stead, was a sordid, mean house, flanked by 
sordid, mean houses in a sordid, mean village. Perplexed, 
he turned to the boy. 

“The Signorina Pandone?” 

“Yes, signor.” 

“The Signorina Bianca Pandone?” 

“Yes, signor, that is right. She lives here with Tita 
and Giuseppi Sirani since her mother died; yes, and lived 
here before them, lived here always.” 

Rivara shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps there was a 
mistake, perhaps there was another Bianca Pandone. But 
if not it was no affair of his if the uncle lived at Rome 
in a palace and the niece at Malazzorbo in a hovel. 

But as he made ready to dismount the boy said, very 
tentatively, “Five sols, signor.” 

“Five sols, for less than a hundred yards?” Then as 
no answer came, he drew out a five-sol piece, balanced it 
between a finger and thumb and held up the other hand 
ready to strike. “Come and take it !” 

From the coin the lad glanced shrewdly at Rivara’s face, 
then back to the coin and went boldly forward. At the 
worst five sols w~as worth much more than a cuffed ear. 

“Take it,” said Rivara, dropping the silver into the 
grimy palm. “Malazzorbo may be a rat-hole, but, thank 
God, the rats are not all cowards.” 

With a “ Grazzi , signor,” the boy pouched the coin in 
some fold of his rags and sprang for the door. “Tita!” 
he cried, pushing it open and thrusting his head and should- 
ers within, “Tita! Tita! Tita! Come quickly. Here’s a 
great lord asking for the signorina !” Then ducking under 


10 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

the horse’s neck he withdrew his wealth to a safe distance. 

As Rivara dismounted, beckoning to the nearest trooper 
to take his reins, the door, which the lad had drawn shut 
after him, was opened an inch or two, then slowly wider 
and a woman looked out. All Rivara caught was the 
glimmer of a scared face above a many-coloured scarf on 
the shoulders, then the door was pushed-to again with 
force, and beyond it the hurried run of loose-shod feet 
could be heard. Tita, he supposed. In that case Tita 
was very frightened, was hard-featured, ill-favoured, and 
anything from thirty-five to forty years of age. Standing 
with the door pushed an inch or two open he paused, wait- 
ing. Tita would recover from her evident fright at nothing 
and come back. From the murmur of voices which had 
risen she could not be far away. But the minutes passed 
and Tita did not come back; growing impatient Rivara 
pushed the door wider and entered. 

As he expected he stepped at once into a bedroom, the 
bedroom, no doubt, of Tita and Giuseppi: no doubt, too, 
every house in Malazzorbo had its room like it. It was 
large, lofty and dark, its one window, small and high up in 
the thick wall, close-fastened by latticed shutters. In 
the diagonal corner, three steps up from the earthen floor, 
was the huge bed where generations of Titas and Giuseppis 
had been born, had slept, and died. A broad oak chest, 
darker with age than even the darkness of the shadows, 
filled another corner: under the window stood an un- 
backed bench; the lofty walls, grey with age, were bare: 
Malazzorbo was content to ask no luxury from life but life 
itself. 

Opposite Rivara was a door which Tita Sirani had pulled 
half -closed after her in her haste; that way came the 
murmur of voices, and Rivara pushed it fully open. He 
was still prepared to find he was on a wrong track. His 
original surmise was fresh in his mind ; there might be two 


MEAN HOUSE IN MALAZZORBO 


11 


Bianca Pandones in or about Malazzorbo, the one niece 
to His Eminence, the other first cousin to the gutter; 
therefore he pushed open the door. But uncles in the 
purple occasionally had nieces not far removed from the 
gutter, therefore he went circumspectly. 

He found himself in a short passage or landing. To 
the right was a blank wall, to the left a narrow stone stair- 
way lit by a small window at the turn, in front yet another 
door through which a voice, a rough, harsh voice, Tita 
Sirani’s no doubt, came raised in expostulation. 

"Signorina, of what use am I? He’s a great lord and 
it is you he wants; that imp of a Tonio said so. Mother 
of Heaven ! but I thought it was the bad times come 
again when I heard the tramp of the horses. Go to him, 
signor ina.” 

"Go out to him and his troop? not if he was ten great 
lords ! You may tell him so from me, Tita.” 

But Rivara gave Tita no time to reply. He knew his 
Italy north and south, and this second voice resolved his 
doubts. There was breeding in it, independence, self- 
assertion; three things not to be found in the voices of 
Malazzorbo or the Marches. For a third time he pushed 
open a door, paused just inside the threshold and bared 
his head. He was standing — as experience had told him 
he would be — in what, for want of a better name, must be 
called the kitchen of the house though, for the most part, 
the cooking was done in the open air. At times, too, the 
room was used by the villagers as an eating-room, though 
his second glance told him that was not the case here — • 
the necessary furnishings were absent: his first glance 
had been at the two women who talked together. The 
one he guessed to be Tita Sirani and he gave her no heed, 
it was at the sight of the second that he bared his head. 

She was tall and straight and strong, but all with re- 
straint — not too tall to be womanly, not too stiffly upright 


12 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


as to lose grace, while vigour of muscle and health were 
alike patent in the rounded arms, bare to midway above 
the elbows, and the oval face touched with colour by the 
air of the fields, but not coarsened by wind or sun. Her 
hands Rivara could not see : they were plunged wrist-deep 
in a tub of water where floated the few wisps of lace she 
possessed: being so few they were precious, being filmy, 
mended, remended and mended yet again, they could not 
be trusted to Tita’s generous vigour. Hung by bands 
round her neck was a white, smock-like apron to protect 
a costume cut after a fashion no Roman lady of Rivara’s 
acquaintance had ever seen. 

Drying her hands in the apron, her eyes on Rivara, 
she rolled down her loose sleeves without the faintest trace 
of embarrassment. If her colour had deepened it was, 
to judge from the set of the firm mouth, rather in resent- 
ment at an intrusion than from any sense of awkwardness, 
t'he hands, he now saw, were sun-browned, but shapely 
and unroughened by toil — large, long-fingered, strong 
hands with strong, sinewy wrists. 

Before he could begin his explanations, and while she 
was still rolling down her sleeves, she turned to Tita. 

“Tonio said a great lord !” 

Rivara went a step forward. “We have both made mis- 
takes, Tonio and I,” he said, “Tonio by announcing too 

much, I by expecting too little. Signorina •” He 

paused an instant, then went on, not doubtfully but like 
a man formally verifying an evident truth; “It is the 
Signorina Pandone?” 

“Pandone is my name.” 

“Bianca Pandone ?” 

“Bianca Pandone,” she repeated. 

“Signorina, His Eminence, your uncle ” 

“Have I an uncle a Cardinal?” she interrupted, her 


MEAN HOUSE IN MALAZZORBO 13 

face as grave as his own. “I had forgotten — as he has 
forgotten: in that onr memories are alike.” 

“I am his secretary,” went on Rivara, as nearly as 
possible as if there had been no interruption. His thought 
was that she became Malazzorbo as little as her wash-tub 
and quaint, village-fashioned garb become her uncle’s niece. 
Opening a pouch attached to his girdle he took out a paper 
bound with thread and elaborately sealed at the folds. 
“He gave me this for you.” 

“Yes,” she said, reading the superscription, “I am 
Bianca Pandone.” 

“And niece to His Eminence ?” Rivara interposed 
hastily. 

For the first time passion stirred on her face. “Oh, be 
sure there are not two Bianca Pandones in Malazzorbo.” 
But the passion passed as quickly as it had risen. “With 
your permission, signor ?” she said, pushing a thumb under 
the thread. 

Rivara bowed, though she had ripped the seals asunder 
and opened the letter without waiting for an answer to her 
formal courtesy. No great Roman lady, could have been 
more at ease, or have played the part better. Very care- 
fully, one hand resting on the edge of the tub in front of 
her, she read the six or eight lines, glanced up at Tita 
standing a yard away, then re-read them yet more slowly. 


CHAPTER II 


Bianca Pandone Speaks Her Mind 

Freed from the restraint of her eyes Rivara appraised 
her curiously. Twice in fifteen minutes he had been 
deceived over her and the experience piqued him. As 
niece of His Eminence his expectations had anticipated 
just such another as any of the hundred girls of quality he 
knew in Rome, countrified and provincial perhaps, and 
lacking the polished veneer Rome alone could give: then 
had come the revelation of the village house in the village 
street and on the instant his imagination had jumped to 
the type of Tita Sirani, allowing for the difference of age. 

Tita Sirani ? Half unconsciously he compared — no, con- 
trasted the two women : comparison suggests a likeness, an 
equality, here there was neither. Tita Sirani was short, 
squat-built, the muscles of her bowed shoulders and hips 
enormously developed by toil; to compel such a develop- 
ment she must many a day have tugged at the plough, 
yoked side by side with a four-footed fellow labourer. Her 
bare arms were rough and hard, their muscles knotted as 
a strong man’s are knotted, the palms of her hands were 
leather for toughness, her face scarred by weather and 
burned to a coarse bronze, her eyes — an emotion part pity, 
part surprise, moved Rivara as he read her eyes. He had 
seen their look in the eyes of certain spaniels — faithful 
devotion, worship, love. It was with dog’s eyes that Tita 
Sirani watched her mistress and dogs, Rivara knew, were 
good judges of character. 

He took the girl to be about four and twenty — an age 
14 


BIANCA SPEAKS HER MIND 


15 


at which most women in the Marches have found husbands. 
That she should still be Bianca Pandone was eloquent of 
her isolation. She was taller than Tita by a head, straight 
where Tita was bowed, slim, long-limbed, with a look of 
breeding — it was as if she felt his scrutiny and read his 
thoughts through her reading of the letter. 

“My mother was a Caldora,” she said, looking him in 
the face a moment, then she dropped her eyes to the page 
again. No! there might be a contrast but there was no 
comparison. 

Almost instantly she again lifted her head. “You know 
what is written here ?” she demanded, rustling the 
paper. 

“Yes, signorina. His Eminence told me ” 

Without waiting for him to finish she turned to Tita 
Sirani. “He orders me to go to Rome.” 

Titans leathern face flamed to a brick red under the 
bronze and her hands went out in a quick, impulsive 
gesture, only to be drawn back as impulsively before touch- 
ing the girl. “Oh, blood of my heart !” she cried in a wail, 
but recovered herself as swiftly as she had withdrawn her 
hands — the shrinking and the recovery were one. “His 
Holiness will know best,” she ended heavily. 

“Not His Holiness yet,” began the girl, but Eivara 
interrupted her. 

“Perhaps, yes,” he said. “Honorius is ill — dying, 
he may be dead, I heard of his danger only this morning : 
St. Peter’s chair may be already vacant and who knows — 
the vote of the conclave ” 

“Not His Holiness when he wrote this,” she interrupted 
in turn, rustling the paper again. Turning to Tita she 
laid a hand on her shoulder: Eivara could see the strong 
fingers moving on the coarse scarf as if in a caress. “Tell 
me, Tita, shall I go or stay?” 

With a quick movement full of passionate fire Tita 


16 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


caught the hand and pressed it to her lips in an abandon 
that ignored Rivara utterly: for the moment it was as if 
he did not exist, and Bianca Pandone and she were alone 
in the room — alone almost in the world itself. So fierce 
was the caress that, given a hate as robust and fiery as her 
love, it seemed to Rivara she could have bitten as readily 
as she kissed. 

“Heart’s core ! Can you ask me !” 

•‘Whom else can I ask ? I have only you and Giuseppi .” 

“And if we were enough — if love were enough. But 
for you it is not, not just the love of Tita and Giuseppi ! 
And what else is there in Malazzorbo ? Malazzorbo ! 
Pah! a dog-hole!” and she almost spat in her contempt. 

Stooping, the girl kissed Tita on the forehead. “God 
be thanked for love,” she said. Then she turned to Rivara. 
“My uncle has been my uncle more than twenty years; 
why does he want me now, he who never wanted me before ?” 

“I know nothing but what he has written, signorina. 
Perhaps he has taken thought of Malazzorbo ” 

With a little fluttering gesture of the hand she silenced 
him. “I have never known my uncle take thought for 
anything but — my uncle!” She fell silent, her eyes 
thoughtfully on Rivara’s face. It was a good face and 
the face of a man half as old again as herself, the face, too, 
of a man given to thought, of a man to be trusted in an 
age when there were few a woman dared trust blindly. 
“You know my uncle — I do not : signor, be frank and tell 
me — what do you advise ?” 

“Signorina,” he answered promptly, “you know Malaz- 
zorbo, I do not: you have your choice, Malazzorbo or 
Rome.” In his own mind it was as if he had said, choose 
which you will, Purgatory or Paradise, yet it is to his credit 
that he laid no emphasis on the alternatives. Perhaps, in 
the end, it was Tita Sirani who brought about a decision. 

“My dove, there will always be Malazzorbo,” she said. 


BIANCA SPEAKS HER MIND 17 

laying a gnarled hand on the girl’s arm, “always Malaz- 
zorbo and love, remember that.” 

“Yes,” said the girl slowly, “I know there will always 
be Malazzorbo.” 

Very carefully she read the letter a third time. The 
note of command in it roused her antagonism. Never 
once, that she could remember, had this brother of her 
long dead father given their poverty a thought. What 
right had he to bid her change her life? Necessarily she 
had heard of him from time to time ; as Bishop of Castallo, 
Archbishop of Imola, Cardinal, his greatness was not to 
be hidden. No doubt he was so busy climbing to his place 
in the sun he had no time to look down upon those he had 
left below in the shade. Now, with the arrogant right 
of a hundred conferred favours, where there were no fav- 
ours, not one, not even remembrance, he bade her come to 
Rome. But she had her choice, Rome or Malazzorbo; and 
Tita was right, there was always Malazzorbo ; in her heart 
she added, there might not always be Rome. 

“If His Eminence — perhaps he was not His Eminence 
then — had sent me this four years ago I might have 
thanked him.” This, was the letter held in her left hand. 
“But instead, His Holiness sent ” 

Tita caught at her with both hands. “No ! no ! Forget 
that and let it be forgotten.” 

“How can I forget? and how can it ever be forgotten?” 
answered the girl with sudden vehemence. “Besides, Sig- 
nor ” She paused in enquiry. 

“Rivara, signorina.” 

“Signor Rivara must be told that I remember: perhaps 
when he knows I have little gratitude to my uncle, and 
less cause to love the Church, he may say, Stay at Malaz- 
zorbo. Four years ago ” Again she broke off, but 

this time it seemed because she found it difficult to put 
in clear words what lay so clearly in her memory. The 


18 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


delicate nostrils widened, the month grew thin-lipped 
almost to hardness and over the eyes a cloud gathered: 
Rivara, watching the change of face could not tell what 
it portended. For some reason she altered her form of 
approach. 

“Here, signor — here in Malazzorbo, that is — we are in 
the Patrimony of Peter ?” 

Rivara nodded. “I know, signorina.” 

“It was natural, then, that Rome was reverend and 
the Holy Father both Holy and a Father. But four years 


Again Tita broke in with a wail. “My dove, my dovfc, 
let it rest in its grave.” 

“No, it is not our shame, it is Rome’s, and how can 
it rest in its grave? Five of us lived here in this house — 
my mother, who is dead; Joana, her little maid, who is 
dead; Tita and Giuseppi, and I.” 

There was certainly nothing dove-like about her now. 
A spark of fire lit the warm eyes, there was fire, too, in the 
rapid, impetuous thrust of the hand that brushed the 
brown-red hair back from her forehead. Yet even while 
the gust of passion drove her she paused. 

“It is w r ell you should understand that I do not love 
your Rome, and why. Rome, Mother of Nations ! Mother 
of devils, I think. Judge for yourself. One day — this 
day of four years ago — I was on the floor above in the room 
that looks out into the street; my mother, bedridden by a 
palsy, lay in the room behind, the room over our head; 
J oana, the little maid, was busied with the housework here 
where we stand. Tita, by the Grace of God, laboured in 
the field with Giuseppi.” Again she paused, less dove-like 
than ever, her brows drawn, her mouth stern, her finger- 
nails biting the palms in her compulsion of restraint. 
“Down the street — Spoleto way — came the tramp of 
feet as yours came today, and drawing the curtain I looked 


BIANCA SPEAKS HER MIND 


19 


out. Why not? They were our own? Had they been 
Pisans, Milanese, Plorentines, I would have prayed God 
for His Mercy and fled to hide myself. But these were 
our own, soldiers of Rome, sons of the Holy Father, and 
there was no war. Remember that — there was no war. 
I even opened the window and leaned forward that I might 
see them better. Why not? They were our own, few 
sights come Malazzorbo way and I was less than twenty.” 

Though Rivara was a scholar rather than a soldier he 
knew war, and understood now something of what was 
coming. With the knowledge his face grew hard — hard 
almost as her own but not quite ; the man who guesses can 
never be stirred to his depths like the woman who knows. 
Besides, it is the woman who suffers. There was this 
difference, too ; in his eyes was the shadow of fear, in hers 
the passionate hate born of knowledge. 

“Down the street they swung in their march, four 
abreast, pikes on their shoulders, pennons a-flutter, armour 
a-glint, five hundred of them, a thousand perhaps, how 
fcould I guess — Malazzorbo had never seen the like. Leaning 
further out I clapped my hands at the brave sight: they 
were our own brothers who gave their lives for our lives. 
Soldiers of the Church, Sons of the Holy Father! Then, 
near the end, a dozen — less perhaps — broke off, but drawn 
by the splendid swing of the march I gave them no heed; 
leaning out of the window, watching, I heard no feet on the 
stairs, and it was only when the draught from the open 
door behind me stirred the curtain that I looked round. 

“There were four of them, but I was not frightened. 
What was there to fear ? There was no war and were they 
not our own? But one said something I did not hear, 
and the rest laughed and began to run across the room. 
•Then Joana screamed and screamed and screamed again; 
Mother of God ! such a scream ! and I — I screamed too, nor 
ceased screaming and pulled the bench between us. 


20 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“They had flung the door shut behind them, now it 
was flung open and a fifth ran in. Somehow, at sight of 
him I ceased screaming for his sword was drawn and I was 
not afraid of that. But the sword was for them, these 
sons of the Holy Father and the Church, not me, for he 
drove them out with its flat and its point. I think he 
spoke to me, tried to calm me, though of that I am not sure. 
For through the open door, and the door open beyond the 
stair head, I saw my mother standing, clinging to the tester 
hangings, my mother, who for three years had never stood 
or even left her bed.” 

“Yes?” said Rivara. His hands, too, were clenched, 
their palms sweating, and even the little word came with 
difficulty. As for Tita, her finger-nails were tearing at the 
throat of her coarse bodice as if her panting bosom would 
burst the control. 

“She died within the month, Joana within a week as 
I would have within a day. The Lord God called the one, 
a saint in charity, patience, pure thought and kindly deed ; 
the other went to Him of her own will, and from my soul I 
believe He made her welcome and gave her His holy com- 
fort, let the Church say what it may. No ! In Malazzorbo 
we do not all love Rome, and the Holy Father is less our 
father than he was.” 

“He was not to blame,” said Rivara, forcing control 
upon himself, “surely you see he was not to blame ?” 

“Perhaps not,” answered she in the same dry, hard 
voice, “but he was quick enough to blame and curse the 
Emperor when his men sacked Forzocco, though the Em- 
peror was not within three hundred miles of the town.” 

“Even so, signorina, he is dying— perhaps dead,” said 
Rivara, “surely the dead may be forgiven?” 

“Yes, but Rome lives for Rome is eternal,” she retorted. 
“Will your new Pope care more for his people?” 

“He may be His Eminence, your uncle.” 


BIANCA SPEAKS HER MIND 


21 


“Then he will care less! But the present question is, 
do you advise me to go to Rome ?” 

For a moment Rivara made no reply. He had quite 
recovered his self possession. It was rather the girl’s 
telling of her story, its concentrated yet repressed white-hot 
passion, that had moved him than the story itself. It was 
too common a tale for prolonged resentment ; if such things 
moved a man’s gall, then his gall would be always bitter. 
In Malazzorbo the tragedy was an event, an epoch, as the 
sacking of Forzocco was to Forzocco, but in Rome a tale 
too common to be twice repeated. 

But should she go to Rome? One less experienced in 
the world’s affairs might have laughed at the girl of Malaz- 
zorbo asking such a question and asking it seriously — as 
if it could matter whether she went or stayed ! But Rivara 
did not laugh. He had his patron in his mind. The girl’s 
hate was robust. How that might affect whatever scheme 
his patron had in his mind Rivara could not guess, but a 
robust hate is always a force to be reckoned with. That 
there was a scheme he was sure — Giordano Pandone was 
not the man to fetch a village girl out of Malazzorbo for 
nothing. 

Then his speculative gaze travelled from the crown of 
red-brown hair, which in childhood might have justified 
her name, by way of the warm-brown eyes set under a 
broad brow, the nose with its delicately chiselled nostrils, 
the full-red-lipped mouth with its hint of other passions 
than that of hate, to the chin, firm and rounded, exquisitely 
ending the exquisite oval of her face, and all he found 
was good. Here was a force known and made use of all 
the world over. Suppose Rome, with its glamour and its 
greatness, its deathless history and red-blood heat of 
passionate life, transmuted this leaden hate to a golden 
devotion — no new miracle in the city’s age-long history — 
would not the very robustness add force to force? The 


22 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


woman who can hate best is the woman who can love best, 
to lose these forces from his patron’s scheme might be a 
crime. 

“Well?” she asked, meeting his speculation with a 
challenge. 

“Rome, without a doubt,” he answered, then added, 
“There will always be Malazzorbo.” 

“Will there be?” Turning, she laid her hand on the 
bowed shoulders. “Tita, would you forget me ?” 

“Oh, signorina, if love could forget, then it never was 
love.” 

For a moment the girl stood looking down into the 
eyes raised to hers, then her own filled. “No, thank God, 
love never forgets : there will always be Malazzorbo. Signor 
Rivara, I will go with you to Rome.” 


CHAPTER III 


Rome! 

“Signor Rivara, tell me something of my uncle’s house- 
hold.” 

It was the question Rivara had expected, half feared, 
yet at times had angled for ever since leaving Malazzorbo. 
How that it was asked he avoided the pit-falls of the answer 
by taking refuge in a generality. 

“The palace,” he began. But Bianca Pandone cut in 
upon his answer without ceremony. 

“Oh, so there is a palace?” 

’ In their three days from Malazzorbo Rivara had learned 
to respect her tongue, but at times the respect was as much 
for what she left unsaid as for any pungency of caustic 
criticism. 

Now it seemed to him the simple question meant, a pal- 
ace in Rome, yet he left us, his dead brother’s wife and 
daughter to what you saw in Malazzorbo ! The criticism 
was as obvious as the censure was severe. But to say the 
obvious truth is not always wise : in the girl’s own interest 
he made up his mind to speak plainly. 

“Signorina, for three days we have been good friends ; 
you have won my admiration — I say it with great respect — 
by your courage and fortitude. Because I said there was 
great need for haste you have made great haste, and never 
once complained of the hardships and discomforts. You 
have made forced marches, faring miserably by the way; 
you have endured the heat of the sun — rain — the roughness 
of the roads ” 

She put up a hand in warning. “You will spoil every- 
23 


24 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


thing — it will look as if I had need to be thanked, or worse 
still, praised for doing my duty. Even I can understand 
that with an election for Pope pending yonr place is in 
Rome. But we have been good friends — yes.” 

“And I am going to risk that friendship by advising 
you.” A gleam of humour woke in his eyes an instant. 
“Almost as many friends are lost by giving good advice 
as by lending money, or doing a kindness ! Signorina, in 
Rome you must say less than you think ; in Rome it will be 
easy to make enemies. I do not excuse what happened 
so sorrowfully four years ago in Malazzorbo, no, not by one 
jot; but try to be tolerant, try to feel Rome, try to under- 
stand Rome — it is not possible, but try — try. She is not 
faultless, no human greatness ever was, and the greater the 
greatness the greater the fault and Rome is the greatest 
thing in the world. Signorina, I say again, I do not excuse 
Malazzorbo but, for your own sake, try to understand 
Rome.” 

“I think I understand,” she answered quietly. “Not 
your Rome, but your advice — to learn to control my tongue. 
Signor Rivara, I have learned much in my three days, and 
it will take more than your advice to make us quarrel. And 
I have taken your advice already. In Malazzorbo I would 
have flown out at you, now I am as meek as a saint, so 
you can tell me of my uncle’s household without fear. Not 
the palace, you understand, but the household. It is 
only the soul that gives the body a value, and so the dwell- 
ers in the house are what count, not the house itself. Tell 
me of my uncle — no — that is not a fair question to ask his 
secretary ; after my uncle who comes next in the household ?” 

“I suppose that would be the signorina, your cousin.” 

“The ?” Bianca Pandone straightened herself 

in her riding-chair and turned to stare at Rivara. “I 
do not understand you, Signor Rivara.” 

On his part Rivara looked her calmly in the face. She 


EOME! 


25 


saw there was an unusual flush on his cheeks, a challenge 
in his eyes, and when he answered her astonished question 
the changed note in his voice put her on her guard — here 
already there was need to follow his advice and say less 
than she thought. 

“Yes, the Signorina Emilia — niece to His Eminence.” 

“Emilia Pandone?” 

“Certainly.” 

The challenge was still there, clear and unmistakable, 
but with its warning Bianca thought she read something 
of appeal. And because of the advice, but also partly 
because of the appeal — had they not been good friends 
for three days? — she did not flame out that she had no 
cousins Pandone, nor could have, seeing that His Eminence 
was her father’s only brother. Instead, she said quietly, 
“Tell me about her, Signor Rivara,” and was rewarded 
by the disappearance of the challenge, cast out by a sudden 
light that leaped to Rivara’s eyes, relief perhaps, perhaps 
something deeper. 

“Thank you, signorina,” he said earnestly, “you will 
never regret it.” But what he thanked her for, or what 
she would never regret, he did not make clear. If he had 
put it in a word he would have said. Toleration. “The 
Signorina Emilia is ” 

“The Signorina Emilia!” she repeated solemnly as he 
paused, evidently perplexed to find the right word. “Do 
you know, I already like your Rome better than I did? 

How old is ” There was the briefest of pauses, then 

she added, “my cousin?” And again Rivara’s eyes were 
grateful. 

“About twenty, I think.” 

“Beautiful ?” 

“People say so,” he answered, looking straight before him. 

The girl laughed. “Then I must not ask if she is like 
me.” 


26 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“A different type, signorina.” His tone was grave 
as before, the flush still on his face, but the corners of the 
mouth were caught in a half humorous twist. Also he 
was very grateful ; the pit-falls had been seen and avoided. 

“You are not very communicative ! I have to drag 
every word out of you. Who comes next?” 

“Alessandro, her brother.” 

“Another cousin?” 

“Yes, signor ina, though on his own valuation he comes 
first of all.” 

Again she laughed. “You have sketched him in a sen- 
tence all but one thing — how old is Alessandro?” 

“Seventeen — eighteen,” answered Rivara indifferently. 

“And who comes next?” 

“Myself, I suppose.” 

“Then Alessandro is even a greater fool than I thought 
him! And next?” 

“The chaplain, the majordomo , the ” 

“Thank you, these can wait,” she interrupted, and sat 
silent a minute or two. 

She was plainly lost in thought, her mind leagues away 
from the miry roads of the campagna, washed into water- 
holes by the winter rain, and rutted deeply where the huge 
wooden wheels of carts from the Sabine hills had cut into 
the soft track. With almost every stride her horse lurched 
or floundered, but she gave no heed, her strong, supple body 
yielding to the swing, or counteracting the changed level 
as by an instinct. When she roused herself and spoke her 
voice was as grave as Rivara’s had been, nor was there now 
any suggestion of laughter in her eyes. 

“I am not a child, Signor Rivara, and I see no value in 
playing at pretences. Emilia and Alessandro are, of course, 
my uncle’s children?” 

“Yes, signorina.” 

“And their mother?” 


ROME! 


27 


“Dead many years ago.” 

“But what does Rome say?” 

“Nothing, signorina. Rome understands, and if any- 
thing Rome admires His Eminence for his frank honesty.” 

“And I think Rome is right,” she answered. “By the 
thickening of the villas we should be near our journey’s 
end: is there anything you wish to say to me before we 
arrive — we have been good friends these three days.” 

There was no mistaking the inferential appeal, almost 
inferential claim, in the last words, and it was Rivara’s 
turn to ride thinking in silence. Of late they had been 
riding through the farms and vineyards which supplied 
the city with the milk, vegetables and fruit so absolutely 
necessary for its life. These were beginning to give place 
to what she had called the villas, small summer residences 
with wide loggie, each in its garden and well shaded by 
cypresses, which the wealthier Romans, detained in the 
city during the hot months, had taken to building beyond 
the walls, encouraged by the comparatively long endurance 
of peace. 

It was not just that the use of his own words moved 
Rivara. It was true it did, but since he had spoken them 
she had met him in a difficult passage with an intuition 
and breadth of mind that had touched him still more 
deeply. What would have happened if she, bred in a nar- 
row village rut, had refused what Rome accepted — if pride 
or anger at her uncle’s neglect had said, I am the only Pan- 
done ! No doubt, compared with Rome she was a cypher 
and helpless, but there would have been much pain for 
those — Rivara said those in his mind, but in reality there 
was only one of whom he thought : Alessandro might fend 
for himself! — much pain for those whom he wished to 
spare pain. For that he was grateful. And Rome was 
near, and in Rome was — the Cardinal of San Marco del 
Monte with his scheme ! When he reached that point in 
his thoughts Rivara looked up. 


28 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Nothing, signor ina; at least, nothing but this — there 
is always Malazzorbo.” 

“Always Malazzorbo/'' she repeated, like one who under- 
stood more than the mere words. “And you would 
help?” 

“Have no doubt of that.” 

“Thank you; then I am not afraid,” she answered, 
and rode on in silence. To Rivara the assurance was 
unnecessary, he had never supposed that any time she 
had felt fear ; uncertainty, doubtfulness perhaps, but noth- 
ing more. 

Presently Rivara, to whom the road was as familiar as 
Malazzorbo street was to her, drew rein and beckoned to 
his second in command, a grizzled man-at-arms in half 
armour, as were all the troop. 

“Wait here for us, Jacopo. And you, signorina, follow 
me ; I have something to show you which no one sees twice 
in a life-time.” 

Turning to the right he led the way along a bridle-path 
which presently began to ascend steeply through a grove 
of oak and chestnut, showing no more than the first rising 
of the sap in the buds swelling on their boughs. That 
they travelled now north, now west, following the twistings 
of the track, Bianca knew by the level sun gilding the 
fretwork of the naked houghs into innumerable fantastic 
shapes, hut at last, as the path grew level, Rivara turned 
definitely to the left. Suddenly the grove ended, and as 
her horse cleared the maze of tree trunks Rivara reined 
up sharply, stretching out an arm. 

“Rome!” Something of pride, something of worship, 
something of reverential awe, were crowded into the single 
word. It was as if one said : “The glory and the greatness 
of the world!” Before them, not just at their feet, yet 
not so far removed that the first surprise drifted through 
distance into bewilderment or confusion, lay such a com- 


ROME ! 


29 


mingling of widespread palace and tower, spire and turret 
dome and colonnade as beggared imagination. A thin 
haze, born of the near approach of night, levelled the seven- 
fold throne of the Mother of Nations, softening but not 
concealing the contours as with some veil of dim antiquity, 
while far upon the right a sparkle cut the grey line of the 
distance underneath the sun. It was the sea, and at her 
first sight of that rim of the world Bianca Pandone’s heart 
stirred as it had not stirred at the two thousand years of 
story gathered beyond the slope. 

Rivara caught the sunset glow on her face and mistook 
its source. 

“Rome!” he repeated, reining back his horse till they 
stood side by side. A glow was on his face also, but it 
was not altogether the glow of the sun. “Rome that was, 
Rome that is, but who can say the Rome that yet shall be ? 
Rome, Christ’s Seat upon earth, the heart and pulse of that 
which is the Life of the World; Rome, the Greatest among 
the Great!” 

“There,” and he pointed downward and forward, “with 
the dome-topped bell tower rising beyond it on the left is 
Saint Peter’s, the throne of Christendom, the Church’s 
Holy of Holies, the Sarcophagus of historied centuries, 
grey with its nine hundred years of stress, a Rock of Time 
glorious with the promise of Eternity. That pin-point, 
barely visible beyond, is the obelisk Caligula brought from 
Heliopolis; in the bronze at the apex rest the ashes of the 
greatest of the Caesars, at its forefront died the greatest of 
the Apostles, crucified as was his Lord, but head downward 
— the glory and the infamy of Rome ! 

“That grey-brown pile between us and the campanile 
is the Vatican, a palace built and still in the building; to 
the left the huge cylinder of marble on the river’s bank 
is the Castel Sant’ Angelo, where eight Emperors of Rome 
were laid to their last rest a thousand years ago; it is notf 


30 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


a fortress and he who holds Sant’ Angelo holds Rome. 
Beyond is the flattened dome of the Pantheon, its founda- 
tions rooted in the ages before ever Christ came upon 
earth; yet further, hardly less ancient, are the broken 
masses of Minerva’s Temple. That thin shaft is Trajan’s 
Column; there he still stands and has stood through a 
thousand years, looking out upon a Rome not even his 
imagination ever pictured. 

“To the left is the Esquiline; there, with its bell tower, 
stands the Church of Maria Mater Dei. To its right, on the 
Capitoline, near the very crest, is the Aracoeli, the church 
of the Altar of Heaven, built by Gregory the Great on the 
site where Juno’s Temple stood; truly, Julian was right 
when his despair cried out: Thou hast conquered, oh 
Galilean ! Beyond, hidden, is the Forum where lie buried 
the very bones of the ages, but that further grey rim where 
a tangle of life grows through the ruin of death, is Nero’s 
Colosseum. 

“Just beyond, and to the left, is Santo Clemente, still 
further Santo Giovanni of the Lateran, the Mother and 
Head of churches the world over ; there, through centuries, 
the Popes have dwelt, but now more and more at the 
Vatican. To the left, scarcely visible in the mist, is the 
slender tower of San Tomasso, with its giant lance-shaft 
imposed upon its cross. It is one of Rome’s Vigil Churches. 
Nearer, within the city, that dome to the right is the round 
church of Santo Stefano; again to the right, on the brow 
of the Aventine, stands Santa Sabina, where of old stood 
the temple of Juno, Queen of Heaven; beside it is Sant’ 
Alessio. And there, far to the south where you catch the 
glint of the river as it curves to the east, stands Santo 
Paolo, the Church’s sentinel and guard beyond the walls.” 

He fell silent, his hand sinking upon his thigh, and so 
sat gazing over the far-flung undulations already darkening 
in the first of the crepuscular greyness. His lips moved 


ROME ! 


31 


soundlessly and in his eyes glowed the fires of worship. 
All his life he had lived in Rome, as a boy he had fed his 
imagination upon her history and her legends, the one as 
real to him almost as the other ; as a man he had grown to 
love her as of old the Jews had loved their holy city, her 
very stones held sacred with a jealous reverence. 

Of late, as Bianca had guessed with her woman’s intui- 
tion, a second passion had crept into life, not incompatible 
with the first. Now she would have liked to have asked 
him something of the spirit which gave these dead bones 
life, something, too, of what lay under that far western 
horizon where the sun’s rim dipped through a golden, 
roseate glory to eclipse, but the rapt worship in his eyes 
silenced her. Presently he spoke again, but not to his com- 
panion. 

“Rome ! Rome of the twenty centuries, Rome of the 
glorious tradition, Rome of the ancient Kings, Rome of the 
Caesars, Rome of the Mother Church; the mistress and the 
mystery of the ages — the half was not told of her ! When 
she speaks the world listens; her very silences ” 

But suddenly, sharply, the silence of the great city was 
broken. Borne on the south-east wind that beat in their 
faces, blowing up from the Pontine marshes, pealed the 
great bell of the Capitol, tolling in single clearly defined, 
solemn strokes — eleven times the brazen funereal beats 
cut the air, then the tolling ceased as abruptly as it had 
rung out, and by reason of the ceasing the silence seemed 
heavier, more brooding than before. But again, almost 
instantly, the dumbness was broken with the same startling 
suddenness. Prom the five great Patriarchal Churches, 
Saint Peter, Saint John of the Lateran, Saint Lawrence 
beyond the walls, Saint Paul, and Saint Mary the Great, 
rang as with a single impulse and a single echo, the 
eleven sonorous, solemn beats. Removing his cap Rivara 
sat bare-headed. 


32 


GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


“The Pope is dead!” he said, looking across to Bianca. 
“Honorius is dead, eleven years he has reigned and he is 
dead — listen to the bells !” 

Eor now, led by the great deep-throated bell of the Capi- 
tol, every church and convent bell in Eome — how many 
who can say? — scores, and scores, and yet scores again — 
was pealing out its message of death and warning — Hon- 
orius the Pope reigned eleven years and Honorius is dead — 
Honorius is dead — is dead — is dead. At his consecration 
a wisp of tow had been burned before him that he might 
remember how swiftly passes the greatness of the world; 
it flames, it glows, it passes in smoke, and for him it had 
passed — Honorius was dead. So said the bells in their 
eleven strokes. But soon the unison was lost as bell after 
bell broke time, until at last the linked pealings rolled 
across the city in one continuous muffled reverberation — 
Honorius is dead. 

“The Church’s Head is taken from her,” said Eivara. 
“God send her a man of His own choosing in his place.” 

“My uncle, for example ?” But Eivara left the question 
unanswered. Eeplacing his bonnet he gathered up the reins. 

“Come, signorina, our place is in Eome and with as little 
delay as possible.” 

Nor was there any time wasted on the road. At a pace 
that bordered on the dangerous, so rapid was it, Eivara 
led the way down hill to his waiting troop, but made no 
pause until, having skirted the huge wall built by the 
fourth Leo, to enclose the city called by his name, he drew 
rein at the gate. 

“Who is in command?” he demanded sharply of the 
guard. 

“Captain Zarilli, signor.” 

“Then say to him that — but there he is himself. Oh ! 
Zarilli! Zarilli! It is I — Eivara,” he called out, and 
was silent until the other joined him, laying a hand famil- 


ROME! 


33 

iarly on Rivara’s knee but giving more attention to Bianca 
Pan done, who had halted a little in the rear, uncertain 
and indistinct in the dusk. 

“His Holiness is dead?” 

“The bells say so ; he took a week to make up his mind,” 
answered the other carelessly. “Ill wager he wished he 
could answer adsum when Otho tapped him on the head 

with the hammer ! Rivara, stoop down ; who is ?” and 

he jerked his head towards the shadow in the rear. 

But Rivara did not stoop down. “What is the news — 
who will succeed him?” 

The soldier shrugged his shoulders. “I neither know 
nor care so long as it is not another sheep like Honor ius, a 
goat like Montelengo — ” he paused, laughing, “or a fox 
]ike Pandone ! — though of the three give me the fox.” 

Again Rivara let the suggestion pass. 

“Then you know nothing?” 

“Nothing at all, and, as I tell you, I care less. If they 
should make the Emperor Pope, now, I would throw up 
my hat! Rome would be trul Tr Rome and not a rabbit 
warren of priests!” 

With a nod Rivara roused his tired horse and rode on, 
Bianca Pandone following. On the left she was aware of a 
glimpse of the domed bell-tower Rivara had told her was 
the Campanile of St. Peter’s silhouetted against the purple 
sky with, behind it, mass upon mass of grey bulk, and 
beyond it a yet more towering bulk. There, she supposed, 
lay the dead Pope. But it was no more than a glimpse as 
they swung round by the right to a second gate, less closely 
guarded, which gave access from the Leonine city to Rome 
proper, and so passed out into a bewilderment of narrow 
streets bordered by high-pitched gloomy buildings and 
divided by yet narrower lanes, ill-paved, miry, and plagued 
with evil smells. 

The one thing sure to the girl’s confused mind was that 


34 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


they traversed a bridge, plunging anew from the sweetness 
of the fresher, more open air of the river into a labyrinth 
where again the atmosphere grew close and heavy. Here 
and there a new-lit lamp hung like a remote star, but for 
the most part the greyness of the thickening dusk was 
unrelieved — a dusk that had grown suddenly almost to the 
darkness of night, so dense were the shadows. In the 
thronged streets progress was slow. At every corner knots 
of men and women were gathered, talking excitedly, while 
constant jostling streams, soldiers afoot and on horseback, 
ecclesiastics, nobles with their armed guards, honest citi- 
zens, prowlers of the night, the shifting, restless microcosm 
of Rome, poured along the main thoroughfares. Emotion 
there was in plenty, hut of the emotion of sorrow Bianca 
saw little or none : though over all the bells rumbled their 
“Honorius is dead.” 

Presently, having turned from a laneway into a broader 
street, Rivara came to a halt opposite a gated archway 
already fast closed, and as he called aloud to the guard 
within the girl knew her journey was at an end. With in- 
stinctive curiosity she looked up, hut in the short interval 
before the opening of the gate she caught little through the 
darkness except an impression of frowning strength — a 
massive, smooth-faced wall, blind in the lower courses save 
for narrow loopholes, windows above, but windows barred 
and cross-barred like a prison, and over all a pent roof 
hanging against the purple of the sky like a cloud. Then 
Rivara rode through the archway, her horse at his girth, 
the troop followed, and the gate clanged behind them. 


CHAPTER IV 


Alessandro Pandone Plays a Jest 

Bianca Pandone was still standing in the courtyard, eas- 
ing her cramped limbs after the long day’s ride, when she 
became aware of a zephyr whirlwind at the door open 
behind her — a whirlwind for its tempestuous rush, but a 
zephyr in its gentleness. The light streaming from the 
lamp within was obscured, then it flashed out again and a 
voice that had much of the zephyr in it and yet something 
of the impatience of the tempest called out: 

“Signor Rivara, Signor Rivara, have you brought my 
cousin? Ah, is that you, Cousin Bianca?” Again there 
was the rush of the whirlwind and Bianca, as she turned, 
was caught in a clasp that had a suggestion almost of 
fierceness in its passionate warmth. “You will let me love 
you a great deal? You must, you are so big and I am so 
little.” 

“You are Emilia?” said Bianca and, half involuntarily 
her arms went round the small figure that pressed so 
eagerly against her. A child’s figure it seemed, it looked 
so small and felt so slim, and soft and yielding under the 
pressure of her arms ; but it was a woman’s face that looked 
up in the lamplight, the sweetest and most lovely woman’s 
face she had ever seen — in Malazzorbo there was little 
beauty beyond the beauty of childhood; the conditions of 
life, to labour at all seasons with the beasts of the field, did 
not favour its preservation. 

“Yes, I am Emilia, and I have been so happy since our 
uncle, a week ago, told me you were coming. Do you 
know, I never knew until then that I had a cousin ?” 

35 


36 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Yes, you have a cousin/’ answered Bianca in a tone 
that had a special significance for Rivara. He was standing 
apart, a shadow among the many busy shadows which 
came and went in the unsaddling of the horses. The use 
of the significance reminded her of him and she tried to 
pay a debt. “Signor Rivara has been so kind and — he told 
me of you.” 

A light flickered into the girl’s dark eyes and the same 
instant Bianca felt the clasp across her shoulders tighten 
in a spasm. Then one arm slipped down to the waist, lying 
there in a light hold, while the other hand was held out 
to Rivara. 

“Signor Rivaro is always kind.” 

Stooping — he had to stoop low — Rivara touched her hand 
with his lips. “Kindness comes easy,” he said, straighten- 
ing himself. “Signorina, is it true the Pope is dead ?” 

With a jerk the hand he held was drawn away, “Dio 
mio! Yes! and not for the first time. Cousin Bianca, 
you are laughing at me? I mean that other Popes have 
died without the world standing still. And does one talk 
of dead Popes when one has not seen one’s friends for three 
weeks? I think the living come first! Oh yes, I know; 
you mean my uncle may be elected? But there is no 
chance of that: Annetta in the Flower Market told me so 
this morning; Cardinal Castiglione’s secretary told her, 
and he knows. All the cardinals’ secretaries know it 

except ” she paused an instant and a subtle change 

slipped into her voice as she ended, “except those who 
have not been in Rome for three weeks! Come, Cousin 
Bianca.” 

But as they turned to open the door there was a rush of 
feet on the street without, a confusion of sudden cries 
mingled with little bursts of laughter and a curse or two. 
Then came a hammering on the gate, iron on iron, as if 
scabbards or dagger hilts were beaten impatiently against 


PANDONE PLAYS A JEST 


37 


the bars, and a voice called out, “It is I — Alessandro — 
open, you fools, open, open/’ and in rushed half a dozen 
lads, breathless with haste and merriment. Promptly the 
same voice cried: “Shoot the bolt, Savelli, and let them 
curse their fill. If curses broke down gates in Rome there’d 
not be many left on their hinges. By the head of Janus, 
but that was a jest ! I’ve got a colic with laughing — 
or may be with running — and nothing but a drink will cure 
it. Are we all here? Let’s count noses and see — one, 
two, three, four, five, six. That’s all right, so come with 
me, my sons, and let the dogs howl.” 

And if by dogs he meant the mob straining furiously 
against the bars of the gate, howl they did. Faces, white- 
hot with passion, were pressed against the barrier, ragged 
arms, ending in twitching, hungry, groping fingers were 
thrust through, clutching at emptiness, and every foulness 
that the foul mind of ignorance bred in a gutter could 
devise was shouted. Not the worst was bastard and an 
ugly play upon the name, Pandone. 

“It is ’Sandro,” whispered the child-woman in white, 
but though Bianca had drawn her nearer to herself in the 
instinct of protection there was no suggestion of fear in the 
responsive closer shrinking. 

But he who had been called Savelli was less philosophical. 
Perhaps the stone which had caught him on the shoulder- 
point as he ran — he being last — had soured his temper: 
Roman cobbles cut deeper than curses. 

“You hear them? Will you let them howl such things 
at you and do nothing? There are six of us, you have a 
score, perhaps thirty men of your own here- ” 

“Yes, I hear them ! They’re like nightingales and sing 
in the dark! But who heeds their likes?” Elbowing 
space through the little group he pushed his way to the 
front, two feet off from the bristle of impotent, clutching 
fists. “Heed them? Why, if to-morrow — yes, or now, 


38 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

I scatter a handful of coppers they will shout any tune I 
please — until my pocket is empty !” 

The sarcasm had just enough truth in it to goad fury 
to frenzy. Like a dying fire swept by a gust of wind to the 
roaring flames of new life their rage broke out afresh. A 
tush from behind drove those in front against the gate 
until the bolts rattled in their sockets; the very bars 
seemed to bulge under the strain. But Alessandro Pandone 
knew the strength of the defences. It would take more 
than curses and bare hands to break down welded iron, 
and, compressed as the assailants were by their own weight, 
there was no freedom for even their wrath to fling a missile 
through. So he straddled his legs, set his fist on his hips 
and looked the mob calmly in the face. 

“Open the door and go out to them?” he said. “No, 
no, Savelli. Never spend good blood where a purse later 
on will buy the same end. And they would rather have 
payment that way — they’re Romans !” Suddenly he 
wheeled round, catching a comrade under the arm. “Come 
along, all of you, I had almost forgotten my colic ; where’s 
that wine ?” 

But Rivara had pushed his way to the front and the two 
met. 

“Signor Alessandro, is this seemly, with His Holiness 
lying dead at the Vatican?” 

“You are wrong,” the lad answered, jeering, “it is at the 
Lateran. Either tell a story right or do not tell it at 
aR.” 

“Lateran, or Vatican matters nothing. Every bell in 
Rome tells you His Holiness lies dead ” 

“Faith! I hear them!” Round he turned to his fel- 
lows. “My sons, here is a riddle for you — what makes 
more noise dead than alive? You can’t guess? Why, a 
Pope — when he is called Honorius ! Which of you can cap 
that ?” 


P AND ONE PLAYS A JEST 39 

“Signor Alessandro/ 5 in face and voice Eivara was alike 
stern, “have respect for your uncle’s office.” 

Back swung the lad, and though he spoke mockingly 
there was offence as well as mockery in his tone, while in 
his eyes lurked a threat more meaning than the words 
themselves. 

“Signor Eivara, have respect for my uncle’s nephew, or 
by every dead Pope in Eome, you will repent it! And 
what is all the bother about ? A nothing, a nothing at all. 
Be quiet, you rabble behind, while your master is speaking ! 
We were at Merola’s, the wine-seller down by the river, and 
because these bells jangled out he must needs close his shop 
and sell no more. That drove us out into the street, and 
there by the Yico del Falcone, on the bank, we happened 
on a pretty girl. One of us, who was it? You Einaldi? 
wanted to kiss her; I give you my word a kiss, nothing 
more! But the little fool, a little citizen wench, if you 
please ! screamed when Einaldi laid hands on her, and first 
one fellow came clamouring at us, then another, so to teach 
them manners we flung them into the river.” 

“Drowned them !” cried Eivara aghast. This was worsO 
than he had feared. 

“Oh, they’ll fetch up somewhere by the Ponte Eotto, I 
dare say, though the current is strong, and I would not 
ask to go river swimming myself. But the girl shrieked 
louder than ever — be quiet, rabble — and in the end we had 
to run for it. What is the use of looking sour, Eivara? 
It was not our fault. Merola should not have closed his 
shop — come to think of it, that means Honorius should not 
have died and I’m sure he agrees with me, so it certainly 
was not our fault.” Turning on his heel he faced the gate. 
“My gutter-dwelling friends, do you hear the tolling? 
The good Pope Honorius is dead ! Think shame to your- 
selves, brawling there in the public streets with such sorrow 
abroad. Disperse — vanish — evaporate — if the guard lays 


40 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


hands on yon you’ll suffer for it; that would grieve me 
and you — especially you! Come, sons, I think my thirst 
dates from the year One of the Republic !” 

Until they had all entered the house by the lamp-lit 
door where, ten minutes before, Bianca and Emilia Pan- 
done had preceded them, Rivara kept his place, then he 
went forward and faced the remnants of the mob, even 
taking hold of a bar of the gate with his naked hand while 
he spoke. In the courtyard behind him some of his troop, 
with their fellows of the palace, stood watching curiously, 
others went stolidly about their business ; the clamour of a 
Roman mob was nothing new. 

“You heard what he said at the last? There was sense 
in it — there will be little pity for a riot on to-night of all 
nights, with our Holy Father lying dead. Get to your 
homes before worse comes of it.” 

“Worse will not come to us,” cried a voice from the 
thick of the mob, “it will be worse for that misbegotten 
whelp of a •” 

“Who threatens?” cried Rivara. Catching a firm grasp 
of the bars over his head he raised himself by force of a 
muscular arm a full foot from the ground and glared out 
about the heads of the throng. “Who threatens, I say?” 
But there was no answer, a silence rather, and he eased 
himself to the stones again. “Begone for your own sakes,” 
he said, and left them growling. 

It was while Alessandro Pandone was girding at the mob 
from behind the safe shelter of the barrier gate that a par- 
ticularly vile epithet flung in reply made the elder girl 
wince. The next instant she recovered herself and drew 
Emilia closer to her in the old instinct of protection. 

“Let us go in, cousin,” she said, and linked together 
like sisters or friends of a lifetime, they passed into the 
house to Rivara’s intense relief. 

Under the lamp-light and beyond was such a life as 


PANDONE PLAYS A JEST 


41 


Bianca had certainly never seen and hardly ever dreamed 
of as existing — how could she, living alone with Tita and 
Giuseppi in the poverty of Malazzorbo? Every day Gior- 
dano Pandone fed more than a hundred and fifty mouths, 
not counting the guards or the men-at-arms who served 
him in the saddle. And yet it was a small household as 
households went in Rome. Cardinal Giovanni Colonna’s 
was twice as large, that of Cardinal Pelagius, who had been 
the dead Pope’s Legate in Egypt, yet greater. 

But to Bianca Pandone, fresh from the mildewed house 
in the one street of Malazzorbo and Tita and Giuseppi, who 
served in the fields as well as in the house, it seemed as if 
she had stepped into a human ant heap, so crowded was 
the teeming and varied activity. First Cosimo Rivara’s 
return and her own arrival, then that greater whet even 
than curiosity, the hope of seeing a riot with its bloodshed, 
the nearest approach to the circus of old left to the Romans, 
had drawn all the household to the doors as a pot of honey 
draws flies. They were of many ages and every degree, 
from the majordomo in black velvet, his staff in his hand, 
his gilt chain of office across breast and shoulders, to the 
scullion who still dangled the kitchen rags wherewith he 
had been wiping the pots. 

Speaking to none Emilia drew her cousin into the square, 
flagged hall and up the broad shallow-stepped marble stair- 
case. Twice only she paused; once when they had passed 
entirely through the throng at the doors, which, however 
it might jostle each other, did not jostle them, and were in 
the full light of a dozen lamps hung by chains from brack- 
ets, then it was to say, “Cousin Bianca, how beautiful you 
are; none of our Roman ladies have such a colour.” And 
once, half-way up the stairs, when she touched her cousin’s 
sleeve and skirt, “To-morrow we must change all this; I 
shall tell my uncle so when he comes back from the Yati- 


42 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Then he is not in the palace ?” asked Bianca. 

“No, he was at the Later an all day, there is so much to 
be done when a Pope dies. But already the conclave is 
sitting at the Vatican that the Church may have a head. 
When our uncle returns ■” 

“I want nothing of my uncle,” interrupted Bianca, open 
antagonism in her voice. 

Ignoring the antagonism Emilia nodded her black head. 
“I shall see that you get it whether you want it or not! 
And you will not be sorry. Even this cannot spoil you,” 
and again she touched the despised gown. “But you are a 

woman, and when you see the difference ” She 

broke off, once more nodding her black head with an air of 
great wisdom. Then in a swift, characteristic transition of 
mood she threw her arms round Bianca. “Oh, how I 
wish I was a man and seven years older, that I might fall 
in love with you !” 

Stooping, Bianca kissed the upturned, childish face, 
kissed it with a warmth in her heart she had not thought 
to find in Rome. 

“Little Emilia, let the man’s love find you instead, and 
when it has found you worship it next to God Himself. 
Perhaps it is looking for you even now ?” 

As in the courtyard so again now the clip of the arms 
strained closer, but the answer, if it was an answer at all 
was oblique, “Cousin Bianca, I am so glad you have come 
to Rome ; you must never go back to Malazzorbo, never.” 

Already Bianca Pandone was realizing that any desire 
for Malazzorbo, or rather, any regret, had weakened. Eor 
Tita and Giuseppi she had at times through these three 
days longed with a hunger of heart that was pain, but she 
was seeing the life of Malazzorbo in its true proportions, 
and all her eagerness of youth, her full-blooded vitality, 
her clear, unsatisfied shrewdness of brain, cried out against 


PANDONE PLAYS A JEST 43 

the cramping narrowness that forced a whole world into 
the confines of a single village street. 

Here, with every step, she found a new existence broad- 
ening out before her, almost a new creation. The Pandones 
came of a lower middle-class stock, a stock at that time 
in almost less repute than the actual tiller of the soil; her 
mother, as she had told Rivara, had been a Caldora, a noble 
family of some wealth and influence in Southern Italy, but 
of greater pride than either. That Marco Pandone, her 
father, had not been taught a bloody repentance for his 
presumption in winning a bride from the dominant class, 
may have been due to indifference, or a contemptuous 
tolerance for a woman’s folly not in accordance with the 
spirit of the age. Or again, the Caldoreschi may have 
thought that life in Malazzorbo was punishment enough. 
Whatever the reason, Pandone was left to die in peace, 
and except for his loss his widow was never heard to com- 
plain ; in his love she had found contentment. 

Giordano Pandone, entering the Church, had won a 
patron in the previous Pope, Innocent III, dead eleven 
years ago, and through his influence the young priest’s 
rise had been rapid. To the See of Castallo had followed 
the Archbishopric of Imola; thence to the purple — those 
were the days before the Red Hat became the symbol of the 
Cardinalate — was but a step. His elevation he owed to 
Honorius. 

But grained in the man was a love of display rather than 
any true sense of the beauty of art, nor, indeed, had the 
soul of the nation itself wakened to that passionately 
intense love for the beautiful which possessed it later. It 
followed, then, that this new world into which Bianca 
Pandone had stepped was marked chiefly by ostentation 
and colour — the brass lamps, set in niches or hanging from 
brackets, were gigantic, the curtains of rich silk, but in 
brilliant shades ill contrasted, the carvings the work of 


44 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


mere craftsmen. The sculptures, and there were many, 
claimed to be antique, but possibly were copies palmed 
upon Pandone’s ignorance, a trade that took root early in 
Italy and flourishes exceedingly well to this day. The 
period aped was not the Classic — the Cardinal had no 
liking for the severity of Classic sculpture — but that of the 
decay of the Empire, when the cunning use of party- 
coloured marble was held a greater triumph than dignity of 
conception or beauty of curved line. 

At the head of the stairs Emilia paused. From the 
courtyard Alessandro’s voice could be heard raised in gibe 
and provocation. 

“We shall have supper in your room together, just we 
two alone. Alessandro may bring his friends with him, 
and for to-night we can do without them — you are wearied 
by your journey.” 

Most thankfully Bianca agreed. Reaction was setting in 
strongly, and with every minute consciousness of fatigue 
grew upon her, fatigue not alone of joint and muscle, but 
also of nerve and brain. But though the need for rest was 
written broadly in the pallor of the tired face, cunning 
Emilia had quite another thought in her clever, kindly 
little head. If Alessandro, to whom nothing was sacred, 
should see his cousin in her present ill-cut, ill-fitting dress, 
he would laugh at her as a provincial, would even — being 
’Sandro and a law unto himself — fling a sharp-edged gibe 
with as little heed as he was flinging them now through 
the bars at the snarling mob. And in Rome gibes killed — 
sometimes a pretension, sometimes a reputation, sometimes 
and in very truth the utterer. Alessandro’s careless jest 
would fly abroad as such jests always fly, and this new 
cousin, to whom Emilia’s warm heart had impulsively 
gone out, would be damned socially before Rome ever saw 
her in reality; therefore the two girls supped alone. 

But weary as Bianca was, sleep sat aloof upon the bed- 


PANDONE PLAYS A JEST 


45 


foot, and for long would come no nearer. After the first 
hour the bells, except those of the five Patriarchal churches, 
had ceased tolling. But these five, ringing their eleven 
strokes in unison, then ceasing for the space of eleven 
strokes, only to crash brazenly out afresh, never hasting, 
never failing, jarred her raw nerves as the incessant rever- 
berations had never done. Add that Pome itself was 
sleepless all night, like a wild beast upon the prowl. Her 
window opened upon the central courtyard and through it, 
muffled but unmistakable, sounded the beat of many feet 
bn the stones of the rough pavement, the roar of many 
voices dulled by distance to a raucous murmur, but, like the 
bells, unhasting, unfailing. 

“A wild beast,” Bianca thought, “a wild beast caged, 
but on the prowl in its cage,” and after hours of listening 
to the bells that ceased only to ring afresh, and the tramp 
that never ceased, she fell asleep. 


CHAPTER V 


The Sfumata 

When Bianca awoke day-light was broad in the room, as 
broad, that is, as day-light can be where the sun never 
strikes directly, and the window is little more than the 
slit of a loophole. But it was not the clearness of the 
light that roused her from her stupor of fatigue, it was a 
joyous laugh, ill suppressed; then a grim contradiction to 
the merriment, the tolling of the bells completed her 
awakening. 

Emilia, again dressed all in white and looking more like 
a slim, tall child playing in masquerade than a woman, 
was stooping over the central table. Beside her, also 
stooping, her sober gown of stuff reaching no further than 
her ankles and puffed out at the hips like a balloon, was 
an elder woman whom Bianca came to know later as 
Lisetta, Emilia’s nurse and fanatical worshipper. 

At a movement from the bed the girl turned and see- 
ing Bianca awake swept across the floor in the whirlwind 
rush of the night before. 

“Good morning, Cousin Bianca. I was so afraid these 
terrible bells would never let you sleep, then I was afraid 
you would wake up too soon, only at last I thought you 
would never waken at all !” 

“Is it so very late?” 

“Anything is too late that you do not get at the right 
moment, and I wanted this just as soon as it might be.” 

“Wanted what?” Still heavy with sleep, Bianca 
raised herself on an arm as she spoke, and the movement 
turned Emilia’s thoughts in a new direction. 

46 


THE “SFUMATA” 


47 

“Oh, you dear ! You too lovely dear ! See what hair, 
Lisetta, coils and coils and coils of it!” Stooping, she 
caught up the loosened braids, twisted them under Bianca’s 
throat, round her neck, and spread the ends broadly across 
her bosom. “What will Home say? How the men will 
love you and the women hate you ! I was wise last night, 
I only hope I have been as wise this morning, but we did 
the best we could.” 

“What have you been doing this morning ?” 

A mischievous light flashed into the girl’s eyes as she 
sat back on the edge of the bed and held up three fingers, 
ticking them off as she answered : 

“Item, one purple taffeta for the streets ; item, one white 
linen when the days are warm; item, one fawn silk ” 

“Taffeta? linen? silk? Emilia, what foolishness are 
you talking?” 

“No foolishness, but woman’s wisdom, Cousin Bianca. 
Stand to one side, Lisetta, that she may see for herself.” 

The nurse, who had kept her place between the bed and 
the table, obeyed, a broad smile on her broad, comely face. 
Laid out in the order of Emilia’s items, so displayed that 
they drooped in folds to the floor, were three costumes, 
the taffeta and the linen with but little adornment, but the 
silk so richly bedecked with laces as to complete the sense 
of the girl’s interrupted sentence. Bianca’s eyes grew 
vexed as she understood. 

“Where did these come from?” 

“All the morning Lisette and I have been hunting 
gowns. The shops are closed, but ” 

“Not hunting gowns for me.” It was an assertion, not 
a question. 

“But our uncle would desire it.” 

“I owe my uncle nothing, not even thanks, and would 
not wish to. You may send them back whence they came.” 

At the change so plainly to be read in the elder girl’s 


48 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


face, Emilia had grown troubled, her gladness suddenly 
quenched; now it sparkled in her eyes afresh. She clap- 
ped her hands like a pleased child, langhing the joyous 
laugh Bianca had heard on awakening. 

“Then you will have to spend the rest of your life in 
bed, Cousin Bianca. The dress you wore last night, and 
all like it, have disappeared while you slept and won’t 
be found again.” Then, with the same childlike impetuo- 
sity, she flung herself forward, catching Bianca in her slim, 
warm arms. “You must wear them; you must, you must, 
you must. And you will have nothing to thank our 
uncle for — nothing at all — it is he who must thank Malaz- 
zorbo for a niece all Rome will fall in love with. Be kind. 
Cousin Bianca, and I am sure you are not a child of the 
devil.” 

“Emilia, what can you mean?” 

“Is he not the father of pride? And what else is it 
but pride that makes you say no ? There ! You are laugh- 
ing, so Lisetta and I are forgiven.” She sat up, nodding 
gaily to the nurse. “You may go, Lisetta. See that the 
bath is ready, and then, for to-day, I shall be tire-woman. 
Now ’Sandro may bring all Rome an it please him !” 

But with all Rome in a ferment Alessandro Pandone 
found the life of the streets more to his taste than the shut- 
tered quiet of the Palazzo Pandone. At dinner, which was 
served an hour before noon, the head of the long table 
which ran the full length of the largest room Bianca had 
ever seen, was empty, and she, with her cousin, Cosimo 
Rivara and the Cardinal’s domestic chaplain were alone 
above the salt. Below, grouped together, were six or 
eight members of the newly-established Dominican and 
Franciscan Orders, each in his respective black or grey 
robe. Between them no love w T as lost. Already they were 
eyeing one another with that jealousy which, later on, was 
to drive the two great Brotherhoods into such an antagon- 


THE “SFUMATA” 


49 


ism as to warrant the satiric use of the quotation: See 
how these Christians love one another ! A shrewd observer, 
Giordano Pandone recognised — as the head of the Church 
did later — the militant value of these foot-soldiers in the 
great Church Army. Drawn from the people and going 
back to the people, as they did, in every hamlet and almost 
every house, their collective influence was far to outweigh 
that of the regular priesthood, therefore Pandone welcomed 
them to his table with effusion. 

Beyond the friars were half a score of dependants at 
the moment in Pome from the secular estates of the Car- 
dinalate, if the phrase may be used. As a matter of 
course they lived at the palace while their stay in the city 
lasted. Lower down came the household, or as many 
of them as could be spared, but not including the guards 
— they were both housed and fed in separate quarters by 
themselves. 

The meal served, though simple, was ample and varied, 
and — it being the period of the Great Fast — was confined 
to a first course of eggs cooked in half-a-dozen different 
ways, a second of freshwater Lenten crabs, then fish, 
boiled and baked, both from the sea and from Lake Brac- 
ciano; it ended with a fourth course of sweets. 

A Latin grace was said by the priest both before and 
after the meal, but there was little conversation, partly 
because Giordano Pandone was accustomed to set and keep 
the ball rolling, partly because the indecision of the con- 
clave was in all men’s minds; but perhaps most of all be- 
cause the unfailing tolling of the bells urged to brooding 
thought rather than talk. At the close all rose but those 
above the salt, bowed gravely to Emilia Pandone as rep- 
resenting their host, were bowed to in return and, begin- 
ning with the household, filed out in silence. 

Emilia drew a long breath and puffed it out again. 

“Praises be! That’s over. I would rather sup lentil 


50 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


porridge by myself in a chimney corner than sit and watch 
them gorge ! Father Reanada, is there no news from the 
Conclave ?” 

“How. could there be, signorina, since no communica 
tions may pass out to the world until there is a decision.” 

“Then it is all very dull. Signor Rivara, do you hear? 
It is all very dull, and my cousin did not come to Rome 
to be dull.” 

Rivara hesitated. There was something of appeal, 
something of command, and not a little of playful wheed- 
ling in the complaint. It was true, the streets of Rome 
were not at their safest ; but then, a guard was always pos- 
sible. Emilia noted the hesitation and grew insistent. 

“There is something — and we are missing it ! What is 
the something, Signor Rivara?” 

Driven into a corner, Rivara took refuge in a protest 
that was an evasion. 

“The signorina must be tired after her three days’ ride.” 

Promptly Emilia brushed the protest aside. “How 
little you understand us! No woman is tired when she 
has a new dress and there is something new to be seen,” 
she declared. “Am I not right, Cousin Bianca? What 
is the something, Signor Rivara?” 

“The Conclave is sitting at the Vatican, at any moment 
the announcement may be made ” 

“And we may hear it? Come, Cousin Bianca, let us 
not lose an instant. Who knows but it may be our uncle ?” 
But at the door she paused. “How must we go?” 

“On foot, signorina.” 

“And I shall see nothing, I am so small !” Then a laugh 
flickered into her black eyes. “But you can hold me up 
— you are so strong ! I hear you climbed half-way up the 
gate when they called us ugly names last night, ’Sandro 
and me. Thank you, Signor Rivara.” 

At the half laughing but wholly earnest praise Cosimo 


THE “SFUMATA” 


51 


Rivara flushed like a girl. With all his heart he prayed 
that the name called from the balcony to the waiting 
crowd packing the forecourt of Saint Peter’s would not be 
that of Giordano Pandone. Small as was his hope of be- 
ing accepted willingly as a titular nephew by the Cardinal 
of San Marco del Monte, it would be the madness of folly 
to expect a favourable answer from an ambitious Pope. 
That he, Rivara, was of better blood than any Pandone, 
would go for nothing. Emilia would have become too 
valuable a pawn in the great game of family aggrandize- 
ment to be wasted upon him; nothing short of a crown, 
or a crown presumptive, would be considered, and Italy 
had petty principalities by the score. 

For the moment he was Pandone’s right hand and 
most trusted confidant ; of that his late mission was proof. 
In his three weeks’ absence he had visited Imola to col- 
lect the accumulated revenues of the archdiocese, a task 
calling for some skill, much discretion and not a little 
courage — neither His Eminence nor the paying of eccles- 
iastical dues was popular in Imola. And Rivara had 
succeeded beyond expectations. Because of that success 
he had hoped some more important mission would be en- 
trusted to him, out of which he might pluck advancement. 
Then had come the death of the ailing Honorius; should 
Giordano Pandone succeed him as Pope the secretary’s 
dream was at an end. He could hope for no advancement 
that would entitle him to stand at the stool of St. Peter’s 
chair. 

His preparations for the streets were no more than com- 
pleted when the cousins joined him in the courtyard. Over 
their indoor costumes stout hooded cloaks had been thrown, 
Bianca’s borrowed from she knew not whom. In Rome 
March winds blow coldly at times, and, however pleasant 
the sun, the nipping air of the narrow, shaded streets made 
the protection not only grateful but almost necessary. 


52 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Rivara had ordered a guard of six, armed with pikes; 
three marched ahead, three behind. He himself wore his 
sword and saw to it that it hung loose in the scabbard. 
Though more scholar than soldier, he could use more forci- 
ble arguments than words when needs must, and he who 
was not ready for that need at an instant’s notice, did not 
know his Rome as Rivara knew it. 

To Bianca here again was a new world, but now the ant- 
heap was a hive where the bees buzzed angrily. Nor were 
they all bees. There were hornets from north and south, 
wasps who preyed for a living upon whatever fruit hung 
ripe and exposed to attack; blood-sucking Zinzaris that 
stole while one slept, and, no less pestiferous, the swarms 
of blow-flies always to be found where a crowded city piles 
high its moral garbage in reeking lanes and foul blind 
alleys. 

Through this thronging turmoil of nobles with their score 
or more of armed followers to force a free passage for their 
lordship through the press, of soldiers of fortune drawn to 
Rome by the lure of party strife as the carcass draws the 
eagles, of sober citizens loosed from their shops by this 
holiday of death’s proclaiming, of ecclesiastics by the score, 
from the purple of the crozier to the black soutane of the 
humblest curate, of friars in grey, friars in black, lay 
brethren, loiterers, vagabonds, thieves and worse, Rivara’s 
guards pushed their way unhasting, unhalting, like the 
bells still clanging their eleven strokes. Being only three 
they pushed civilly, content with slow progress. More 
than once Rivara, upon the outside as they walked three 
abreast with Emilia on his right, wished with all his heart 
that Alessandro Pandone was beyond Bianca, then in the 
same pulse thanked heaven he was not. ’Sandro would as- 
suredly have hatched a quarrel before they had gone a fur- 
long. 

Except the open space as they crossed the Tiber, Bianca 


THE “SFUMATA” 


53 


recognised nothing of the previous night’s reverse journey, 
until, the crowd growing thicker, rougher and more clamor- 
ous with every yard, she caught sight of a domed campan- 
ile which she knew to be the bell tower of St. Peter’s. To- 
wards this, or rather a little to its left, where a long and 
broad flight of shallow steps gave approach to a wide- 
flung fagade pierced by many arches, the dense throng was 
slowly forcing its way. To her it seemed as if half Pome, 
and that half drawn chiefly from the dens and rookeries 
of the city, must have been packed within the flanking col- 
onnades between whose many pillars they made their pass- 
age. 

The guards were now of but little service, but the crowd, 
for all its doubtful character, was good-humored and too 
dense for horse-play. Up the steps, Kivara now in the 
centre, an arm linked with each, they mounted at a crawl, 
their progress impeded by a meeting stream which forced 
an opposite passage through the three huge doors facing 
the centre of the steps. The buzz of talk was like the soft 
roar of distant waters, where out of the conflict of many 
voices is blent a hoarse harmony, and above this murmur- 
ous sea clanged the mighty monotone of the tolling bell. 

Presently they penetrated to the fore-court, a broad 
quadrangle surrounded by covered cloister walks, and again 
recognition came to Bianca. There, on her right, was the 
grey-brown pile Eivara had called the Vatican, and that — 
her heart leaped in her bosom as she understood — that was 
surely Saint Peter’s itself looking down upon her across 
the further end of the court! Saint Peter’s of the thou- 
sand hallowed years of worship, the Holy of Holies of the 
Western Church, the Christian Pantheon where the mighty 
dead of the ages slept their last sleep. 

For another three hundred years that grey pile was to 
stand, the shrine and magnet of religious fervour to Christ- 
endom at large, a mausoleum more sacred with every cen- 


54 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


tury ; then it was to pass away utterly — to the very founda- 
tions, and above the waste space was to rise another shrine, 
more magnificent perhaps, more capacious, more marvel- 
lous in its building, but not more glorious, nor more rev- 
erend in its sacred associations. The Saint Peter’s of to-day 
is not the Saint Peter’s of Honorious; of it not one stone 
stands in its ancient place, nor is the Vatican the pile to 
which the crowd turned expectant faces. 

So direct and universal was the gaze, so eager the atten- 
tion, so notable the growing silence settling in an expectant 
hush upon the vast throng, that both girls involuntarily 
turned to Rivara, who now stood behind them. But his 
only answer to the mute question was an almost impatient 
shake of the head, nor did he lower his intent gaze from 
the grey-brown turrets and gables cutting the sky-line 
above the northern cloisters where every face was turned. 

The hush grew in intensity to a pain; it was a silence 
that might be felt. Out of all that upturned sea of living 
faces hardly so much as a breath seemed to issue. Then, 
at Bianca’s elbow, a voice broke out in an unconscious 
whisper. It was a priest who spoke, a man old before his 
time, lean of face, hollow-eyed, ascetic, the flesh worn to 
extinction by the fierceness of the inner spiritual fires. 

“The greatest thing in the world — the greatest — the 
greatest. To kill or to make alive; to shut and none can 
open; to open and none may shut — none — none. Stoop 
down, thou Holy Spirit, stoop down and speak !” 

Bianca’s skin crept upon her. Never before had she 
realised the tremendous greatness of the issues in the bal- 
ance behind that grey-brown wall — the very Spirit of God 
was there present to choose for Himself a new Vicar of 
Christ, a new Vicegerent of the Almighty to grasp the 
Keys of Saint Peter, a new power to hind or loose, to con- 
demn or pardon, to bring peace upon earth or a sword. 
Small wonder that even a Roman crowd was awed to silence. 


THE “SFUMATA” 


55 

And then as, mechanically, nncomprehendingly, shiver- 
ing within herself, she watched as those about her watched, 
a spiral of smoke went up, thin and grey at first but grow- 
ing rapidly to a dense, black column, and over the wide- 
flung crowd there broke a ripple of life in a long-drawn, 
universal Ah-h-h! like the sigh of some huge monster that 
has slept and dreams in its sleep. And swiftly, in the same 
breath, Rome was Rome again. As if swayed by the one 
impulse, the whole quadrangle surged with movement, awe 
and reverence were flung off, and the brooding, mystical 
silence shattered by a thousand raucous tongues, most of 
them ribald. 

“Then Montelengo the Goat has another chance yet !” 

“Why can’t they agree ! It’s each for himself, I suppose.” 

“Pandone’s money-bags came a day too late or they 
would have settled it out of hand!” 

“Spirit of the living God, grant them wisdom !” 

“Put them on bread and water and they will soon come 
to a vote.” 

“Oh, he ! ’Rico ! ’Rico ! This is poor sport. Make for 
the bridge and wait there for me.” 

These, and a score of cries like them. No doubt it was in 
part reaction, the slackening of a tension strained almost 
to breaking point, but in spirit it was Rome — one moment 
awed to a reverent silence, thrilled through and through 
with dumb emotion, and given up the next to coarse jests, 
gibes, gross foulness and empty laughter. Bewildered, 
Bianca again turned to Rivara with her mute demand. 

“The Sfumata he explained. “Every third hour from 
eleven in the forenoon they burn damp straw as a signal 
that there is no election as yet. It was that the crowd 
watched for — the smoke — the Sfumata 

“And will there be no election now till five ?” 

“It may come at any moment, but every third hour 
they say to the world : Not yet !” 


CHAPTER VI 


In Old Saint Peter's 

Meanwhile the mob had thinned, pouring out in a triple 
stream through the great archways that gave upon the 
colonnades leading to the Tiber and the Bridge of Sant’ 
Angelo. The huge atrium was now two-thirds empty and 
Rivara was concerned to find that in the confusion they had 
become separated from their guards; the rabble, in its 
new -mood of rough jesting was, or might be, dangerous. 

And Bianca's next question: “Why do they say Monte- 
lengo, the Goat ?” proved the danger. Eor, as Rivara hesi- 
tated how to answer without offence, a burly loafer, one of 
a group of four standing near, overheard and broke in with 
a guffaw of laughter. 

“Why? Because he carries his cageful of pretty dears, 
his bona-robas with him wherever he goes, just as if he 
was the Emperor himself, that’s why. Where do you come 
from that you don’t know Montelengo the Goat? Let’s 
see your face,” and he made as if to push back the hood 
that covered her head. 

But quick and sudden as was the gesture of offence a 
bystander was quicker still, catching the truculent ruffian 
by the throat and flinging him staggering amongst his 
fellows before ever Rivara had stirred to interfere. 

“Back to your kennel, cur. What? Draw a knife 
would you? Tcha! We are two to your four — you are 
out-matched. Be off, lest your dues are paid you.” 

There was an instant’s hesitation, a moment in which 
murder raised its head and glared ; but Rivara had stridden 
56 


57 


IN OLD SAINT PETER’S 

forward, his sword half-drawn, and with a growl, part 
curse, part vile abuse, the bullies drew back. The stranger 
turned to Rivara. 

“Was it wise, signor — ladies in such a place and at such 
a time?” 

“We have guards,” answered Rivara, “but for the mo- 
ment we have lost them in the crowd.” 

“Then for the moment let me in part supply their place.” 
Though he spoke to Rivara his eyes wandered to Bianca, 
but it was Emilia, the impulsive, who answered. 

“Signor, it must be splendid to be so strong. Signor 
Rivara would have done the same but we prevented him. 
The Cardinal of San Marco del Monte will himself thank 
you when the Conclave is ended.” 

“Ah! The Signorina Pandone?” He looked from the 
cousins to Rivara and back again to the hooded cloaks. 
“Years ago there was a Marco Pandone who married ” 

“My mother,” interrupted Bianca. 

Baring his head he bowed, smiling. “Then, signorina, 
I have the honour to be a cousin ” 

Again she interrupted him, her voice almost as hard 
as when she had told Rivara her story of four years past. 
“I have long ago forgotten that I had cousins in the south, 
and now I do not care to remember.” 

“Ah, signorina,” he protested, unoffended by the will 
to offend; there was even a whimsical good humour in 
his pleasant southern voice with its soft inflexions, “had 
you been my sister you could have scorned me properly, 
but I am so far-off a cousin that there can be no bitterness 
in the blood. My grand-mother was a Caldora.” He 
turned to Rivara: “My name is Alvano; am I enlisted as 
additional guard for the hour, signor ?” 

Looking round him Rivara hesitated. The men-at-arms 
had vanished utterly, hopelessly lost in the ebb and flow 
of cross currents sweeping through the atrium . As the 


58 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


day drew on the streets would grow still more unsafe 
and not simply from the type of ruffians Alvano had dis- 
comfited. License would increase, Alessandro Pandones 
and Rinaldis would be abroad in plenty, more impudent, 
more reckless and more aggressive. On the other hand: 
Trust the stranger you know and no other, was a wise 
proverb. It was Emilia who swept aside his hesitation 
as the wind scatters vapour. 

“If you will guard your cousin, I shall be quite safe with 
Signor Rivara.” 

“Signorina, it will be twenty years arrears of duty and 
pleasure.” 

Emilia shook her head until the hood almost fell back 
upon her shoulders. “Ah, signor, you are truly from the 
south, that’s easily seen. Rome does not coin pretty 
phrases so readily. Now, Signor Rivara, am I not clever? 
I have settled it all. Let us go.” 

But Rivara, though he would have been more than hu- 
man not to be content with the allotted division of respon- 
sibility, still hesitated. The four bullies, part beggar, 
part thief, part bravo, whole scum of Rome’s recurrent 
turbulence, had retired no further than the eastern clois- 
ters. To gather twice or thrice their number and force a 
quarrel at the mouth of some laneway, where their own 
kind held sway in defiance of all the powers of law, would 
be easy. Discretion was wisdom, as it is nineteen times 
in twenty; the twentieth time is the birth-hour of heroes. 

“Let us go by way of the church,” said Rivara. “Sig- 
norina Bianca has never seen Saint Peter’s.” 

And so, five minutes later, Bianca Pandone, who felt not 
at all at peace with the world, because of this new cousin 
who had forced her mother’s wrongs of neglect upon her 
memory, found herself in a world of peace, another new 
world, the third of her finding in the less than twenty-four 
hours since she had come to Rome. She had passed through 


59 


IN OLD SAINT PETER’S 

the doors — not Filarete’s bronze doors, still to be found 
under Moderna’s portiea; it is true they come from the 
old church, but not the church of Bianca Pandone — with 
a tumult of rebellious bitterness swelling in her heart. 
There was indignation against the Caldoreschi, root and 
branch, resentment against her uncle, vexation at this un- 
desired intrusion; but as the heavy leathern curtain shut 
out the glare an awe fell upon her — here was no place for 
the hot passions of the world. 

The vast church was almost empty of worshippers. 
Here and there a single figure knelt in the distant shadow 
of a pillar ; here and there a little group paused before some 
wonder of bronze oi mosaic, some exquisitely delicate 
tracery of carving or austere dignity of marble, some price- 
less reliquary enshrining that which was yet further beyond 
price. The air was sweet with incense, as if the breath of 
a by-gone praise still lingered; the only voice the voice 
of prayer murmured from some far-off, hidden altar, a 
voice gentle, calm, and subdued, yet rolling to the very 
raftered roof of the high-pitched nave. 

Alvano, at her shoulder, caught something of her 
changed spirit. 

“Was I to blame, cousin, I who did not know?” 

Her only answer was a little fluttering shake of an open 
hand, but in her heart she knew the grudge had died — 
who could cry aloud a petty passion in the face of this 
rebuking quietude? 

Though afternoon was at its prime the great church was 
dim, the lights from the clerestory hardly rousing shadows 
in the further aisles, broken as it was by the double row 
of massive columns on either side. Like a forest they 
seemed to Bianca, these columns of many coloured marbles, 
almost one hundred in number. Their story was the story 
of Rome itself. Of old the fires of Pagan sacrifices had 
burned before them, and through their aisles had rung 


60 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


hymns to the many gods of the ancient city. But now the 
Powers of Violence had yielded up their spoils to the ser- 
vice of the Prince of Peace, and through a thousand years 
of sacred use that which had been profanation had grown 
holy. 

Something of Rivara’s reverent love and worship, 
emotions not in themselves religious, woke in her as she 
listened to his whispered story. 

There, behind that inscription which relates the story 
of England’s conversion to The Eaith, Gregory the Great 
had slept his peaceful sleep six hundred years; in that 
Sarcophagus of red granite lay Adrian IV., of all the long 
line of Popes the only Englishman who ever sat in Saint 
Peter’s chair. Within that glory of mosaic and porphyry 
rested the boy Emperor, Otho; there Crescentius, Senator 
of Rome, hewn to death in Sant’ Angelo by order of that 
same Otho, found the peace his turbulent spirit never gave 
the flesh in its lifetime; near by in the irony of history 
lay his ancient enemy, Gregory the Fifth, a Pope at five- 
and-twenty and dead within two years. 

Upon all or most of these the mellowing breath of anti- 
quity had blown, but here was marble newly hewn, garish 
almost, in its raw whiteness. Within it lay Innocent 
III., he whom Honorious had succeeded, Honorious, whose 
knell the bell at the corner of the atrium without still 
tolled in its eleven strokes. A great Pope, Innocent, said 
Rivara, with enthusiasm, and a great lover of this his 
church; that mosaic of our Lord above the Confessio was 
his gift, also the bronze grille, marvellous in its workman- 
ship, which enclosed the forefront of the tomb — let this be 
added, as it stood in the old church so it stands at this 
day in the new. 

And there, in that sunken sepulchre surrounded by these 
twelve columns of white Tyrian marble, lay the bones of the 
great martyred Apostle who had died in Nero’s Circus. 


IN OLD SAINT PETER’S 61 

Commonly a hundred lamps burned round the tomb, but 
now these were quenched in the Church’s mourning for 
her head upon earth; one single wick only was alight, 
type of that Glorious Hope the Grace of God never suffers 
to fail for our human comforting, even in the heaviest sor- 
row. 

That spiral shaft, also of white marble, fluted, and 
wreathed with carvings, standing between the tomb and 
the high altar, was the Colonna Santa, the pillar against 
which Christ had leaned as He disputed with the doctors 
in Solomon’s Temple. And there, midway to the door, 
was the bronze statue of the Apostle himself; through six 
centuries 

Suddenly Alvano laid a hand on Rivara’s arm, checking 
him in mid-speech. 

“Hush ! Listen !” he said. “The bell has stopped.” 

It was true. Across the incessant hum from the court- 
yard came the burr of the vibrating metal, but the tolling 
had ceased, struck dumb midway through its monotonous 
count. In the distance there still sounded the united peal- 
ing from the Lateran and Santo Paolo in the south, Santo 
Lorenzo and Santa Maria Maggiore in the east, then, 
warned by the silence of Saint Peter’s, it, too, ceased. For 
such a space of time as eleven strokes might be struck, 
Rivara paused, listening, his face intent in the greyness. 
But the silence remained unbroken; without doubt the 
burr from beyond the quadrangle was dying down. 

“Come,” he said briefly. Catching Emilia under the 
arm, without ceremony, he hurried her towards the doors, 
nor did he speak until they had reached the portico and 
the curtain had flapped into its place behind them. 

“The Conclave is ended; the world has a new Pope, 
and in five minutes we shall hear his name.” 

Again he paused, looking out doubtfully across the vast 
court. Once again it seemed to Bianca as if half the city 


62 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

must be pouring through the triple arches at the further 
end, so dense were the streams of struggling humanity. 
So, possibly, in the old days had Rome poured down the 
sacred way to the Circus, when Caesar, of his grace, threw 
the show open to the populace. The spirit was still the 
same. Death in the arena; the Vicegerent of the Prince 
of Peace in the atrium ; what did it matter which, so long 
as Rome was thrilled to its unstable heart by something 
new? 

Again Alvano touched Rivara’s arm. “There — by the 
fountain, while there is time,” he said with curt decision. 
“At least we cannot be caught between a backward and 
a forward pressure, but lose no time,” and Rivara nodded 
approval. Alvano, with a soldier’s eye, had seized upon 
a point of vantage. 

That, truly, was a wild dash. Once more Rivara had 
Emilia by the arm, nor did Bianca resent that through the 
jostling eddies of that confused and shifting sea, callous 
and careless as ocean itself, this unknown cousin guided 
her in like fashion. Nor did he give her guidance only. 
Time and again his arm and shoulder kept her safe from 
hurt, warding off the blind, heedless onset of the seething 
crowd. His strength, foresight, and swiftness of action 
compelled her admiration. Now it was a dive through an 
opening lane in the throng, now a dexterous twist to one 
side or the other, now a thrust of the shoulder to force a 
passage, but always with a gay word or nod, a jest, a laugh- 
ing deprecation that disarmed resentment even while he 
gained his object at another’s cost. 

In the end they were the first to reach the goal, Bianca 
breathless but elate, and with the blood coursing joyously 
through her veins as it had not run since she was a child ; 
Malazzorbo seemed half a generation distant. Presently 
Emilia and Rivara joined them and together they waited. 


IN OLD SAINT PETER’S 


63 


the cousins behind against the fountain, Alvano and Rivara 
in front keeping back the crush. 

With a rapidity inconceivable the great quadrangle had 
filled up afresh, filled to bursting point had that been pos- 
sible. Again the crowd was very silent, but it was a 
silence with a difference. Then it had seemed as if they 
drew no breath, as if their very hearts had ceased to beat 
in the sharp tension of expectancy — it was the stillness 
of death ; now it was the stillness of life, and the air throb- 
bed as with a universal, feverish pulse. 

Behind, the fountain splashed, gushing from that huge 
core of bronze pine which may still be seen in the Vatican 
gardens, but in all the atrium there was no definite sound, 
no outcry. Then a window near the angle of the church 
was opened, a cross thrust out, and a figure in scarlet step- 
ped upon the balcony, a note of vivid colour against the 
prevailing greyness. 

“Otho,” said Rivara, under his breath, “Otho, who was 
Legate in England and is now Camerlengo.” 

The silence deepened to the old painful, strained intens- 
ity as the Cardinal raised his hand, leaning forward on the 
balcony rail. 

“Let the world rejoice !” he said, his thin voice reaching 
clearly to the furthest colonnade. “God has been very 
gracious to His Church. He has given her for chief pastor 
and head the most eminent Cardinal Ugolino Conti, who 
shall be known henceforth as Gregory the Ninth.” Again 
he raised his hand, this time with three fingers extended 
in benediction, and for a brief space the spell of silence 
held its sway. Then he stepped back into the room behind 
him, the cross was withdrawn, and as the window closed, 
babel broke loose. 

But this time Bianca Pandone was unconscious of the 
tumult ; the two men before her caught and held her atten- 
tion. Rivara’s pent breath had gone from him in a faint 


64 


GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


“Thank God !” but Alvano stood rigid, his eyes still fixed 
upon the empty balcony yet seeing neither it nor the surg- 
ing crowd between. It was as if his mind was leagues 
away, or his thoughts concentrated upon an urgent, vital 
problem whose solution evaded him. But the sudden 
clashing out of a joy-peal from the campanile, in the angle 
of the courtyard, roused him — a joy-peal caught up and 
echoed by every church bell in Eome, till the air throbbed 
with the brazen reverberation. 

“Ugolino Conti !” he repeated, half vacantly. “That old 
grey wolf to follow Honorious? Then there’s an end to 
peace in Italy.” 


CHAPTER VII 


Cardinal Pandone Returns prom the Conclave 

It was through a Rome of excited streets, the bells still 
clanging from every monastery, every church tower, every 
religious house owing spiritual allegiance to the Church, 
that Cardinal Giordano Pandone returned to his palace, 
whither Rivara and his party had preceded him an hour 
earlier without incident. 

He rode in an open double litter, ten men at arms before 
him, and ten behind, his personal chaplain humbly on a 
lower seat at his left hand. Because of the crowd progress 
was slow, and at every halt His Eminence was ready with 
his benediction for whosoever seemed in the least to 
desire it. 

Nor had he far to look for the devout. Apart from the 
natural respect attaching to his office, an office haloed, so 
to speak, in a new reverence as one in whom the Spirit of 
Divine Wisdom had lately moved, Giordano Pandone was 
popular for a double reason — he was carefully liberal, gen- 
erous even, and women, who count for much in religion, 
or, perhaps, in religiosity, thought him an ideal prelate. 

Tall, but not over-tall, not even his loose purple robe 
could conceal the graceful, slim proportions of a figure un- 
spoilt by close upon fifty years of life, and a frank enjoy- 
ment of the good things of this world. Honorious, who 
had made him Cardinal, had worn a beard, therefore, so 
said his detractors, Giordano Pandone wore one also; 
but whereas the Pope’s had been small and sparse, the 
growth of unstudied carelessness, that of Giordano Pan- 
65 


66 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

done was the child of much thought. It descended magni- 
ficently upon his breast, the lacing of silver through the 
glossy blackness adding that touch of venerableness his 
comely, youthful face, and no less youthful vigour, denied 
him. Later, Bianca Pandone told herself that he wore 
just such a beard to hide a mouth which might have seemed 
to deny his accepted reputation; but Bianca having been 
brought up in the narrow groove of Malazzorbo, could not 
claim to be a judge of character, certainly not a character 
so complex as the Cardinal of San Marco del Monte. 

Round the palace gate the strolling idlers had thickened 
to a curious mob, and having descended from his litter 
Giordano Pandone addressed them from the shelter of 
the archway. It was his voice that had first attracted 
Innocent, it was so soft yet so sonorous, so rich and full 
yet capable of such modulation; there were those who said 
that to hear the Cardinal of San Marco del Monte speak 
was to hear music. Many a time it had stood him in good 
stead; men, but chiefly women, forgot the matter in the 
manner, the sense in the sound. 

“In the midst of death we are in life — the hand that 
smites heals; the correction that wounds binds up our 
bleeding. To the tenderness of Hono.rius succeeds the 
strong love of a Gregory — to ripened wisdom a wisdom 
already ripe. Rome holds no truer lover than His Holi- 
ness. Let those who would judge something of his large 
heart, and carry more than a memory home with them, 
gather near San Marco and Sant’ Adriano on the day of 
the procession. In honour of the most happy election, 
where the Will of the Spirit was never more manifest, 
I dedicate one hundred solidi to Rome here and now — 
See to it, Maggiordomo, see to it,” and with a command- 
ing gesture to the solemn functionary in black velvet he 
entered the courtyard, but faced round, with a gracious 
wave of a white hand, to deprecate the plaudits which 


CARDINAL PANDONE RETURNS 67 

acknowledged his generosity. “ Eviva Pandone! Long 
live His Eminence! God send us such a Pope!” Then, 
half resting on Rivara’s shoulder, he turned again into the 
‘court, smilingly responding to the respectful greetings of 
his household upon either side. 

“Yes, my friends, yes; a great deliverance — the mani- 
fest Will of the Spirit, blessed be God. In whom else of 
us all can be found such piety, such learning, such love 
of the Church, such love of the people — um, I will sup in 
my own apartments to-night; there is much need for rest 
and meditation.” They had now reached the isolation 
of the staircase, and the pressure on Rivara’s shoulder 
increased as the rich voice took on a deeper note. “You 
were late ? I expected you at least a week ago.” 

“There was delay at Imola, Father; persuasion was 
needed ” 

“Yes, yes,” the interruption was impatience itself. “But 
you succeeded?” 

“Beyond expectations, Father.” 

“That is good; but had you returned a week ago — 
no! I don’t think that would have made any difference 
in the election. Are Emilia and Alessandro well? Ah! 
there is my little Emilia; ’Sandro, I suppose, is — wherever 
it pleases ’Sandro!” Stooping he kissed with evident 
warmth of affection the face upturned to his. “And what 
mischief has my dove found out for herself these two days 
past?” 

“Spending money, uncle !” and she laughed joyously. 

“Oh, ho!” The arm laid about her shook her play- 
fully as they continued their slow ascent. “It is well 
Rivara did not come back from Imola with empty pockets 
or I would be ruined. Spending money on what ?” 

“To buy dresses for cousin Bianca,” and she laughed 
again, laughed gleefully, as a child laughs. 

“Um — cousin Bianca?” The Cardinal half paused 


68 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


upon a landing, the playful banter dying from his face. 
“I had forgotten cousin Bianca.” 

"Yes, uncle, you have forgotten her far too long. And 
now you must bring three or four princes and grand dukes, 
young and handsome and rich, that I may choose the very 
nicest as a husband for her; nothing less is fit. If I had 
been a man, or if ’Sandro were old enough ” 

"Thank heaven there is a 'no’ to both 'ifs’! And as 
for you, child, be content as you are.” 

"That is what she told me — see how wise she is, almost 
as wise as you ! No ! that’s not possible. You are so wise 
I was afraid they would make you Pope. Old Annetta in 
the flower market said they were sure to !” 

"Cardinal Ugolino is much wiser,” he answered, then 
added reflectively : "it is true he is more than eighty years 
old.” 

"An old grey wolf,” said Emilia, nodding her black head 
wisely. 

Pandone started, wrenching himself apart from the two 
on whom he leaned. They had halted on the stair-head, 
and, sudden fear in his eyes, he looked apprehensively up 
and down the corridor. Because of the narrow windows 
lamps were already alight, though day was still abroad 
in the streets, but no one was in sight. "Child, child, 
you must not say such things. Who put such a phrase as 
that into your mouth? Was it Alessandro?” 

"Oh, no,” she answered, half frightened by his vehem- 
ence, "not ’Sandro.” 

"Who then, who ?” 

"I heard it somewhere — I have forgotten where.” It 
is to be feared that her memory was better than she ad- 
mitted, but the offender — clearly there was offence though 
she had meant none — was Bianca’s newly-found cousin 
and she was loyal to Bianca. She now used her as a way of 


CARDINAL PANDONE RETURNS 


69 


escape from questioning. “Are you not coming to see 
cousin Bianca ?” 

“Bianca has waited more than twenty years, let her 
wait twelve hours longer,” he answered drily. “To-night 
I am fatigued.” Lifting her face to his he kissed her. 
The old tenderness had returned, but his attempt at play- 
ful banter was a failure. “God bless my girl; when it 
comes to princes and grand dukes there is someone else 
to be thought of besides Bianca. Come, Rivara.” But, 
his under lip pushed out, he stood watching her as long 
as she was in sight. “An old grey wolf ! Who can have 
taught her that phrase ? It is too apt for chance.” 

But as Emilia was loyal to Bianca so was Rivara loyal 
to Emilia. “We were in the courtyard of Saint Peter’s 
when the election was announced; a bystander used the 
words.” 

“In the courtyard? In the midst of that unwashed 
rabble? Was it safe?” 

“She wished to go, Eather; and we had guards.” 

“She wished to hear the announcement? I see, I see. 
Yes, I think she loves her old uncle a little. A bystander ? 
That does not look like a popular election; Rome has a 
way of blurting out the truth at times. Give me your 
arm, Rivara, I am tired.” 

His Eminence said no more than the truth when he com- 
plained that he was in need of rest. For four-and-twenty 
hours he had been stretched on the rack of passionate, 
eager expectation, the ambition of a lifetime at his finger 
tips, but always just beyond grasp, and few things raw the 
nerves like desire at a white heat. It is always passion, 
not work nor the drudging stress of labour, but passion of 
any kind, be it hate or love, hope, fear or greed, that bites 
into a man as acid bites into copper, leaving its indelible 
impression. 

Overwrought, Pandone leaned back in a deep chair, his 


70 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


eyes closed, his silken beard sweeping his breast. If he 
spoke it was because, his nerves still tingling, speech was a 
relief ; it eased the fret of silent thought. 

“A day to age a man — Honorius has the best of it. Not 
an hour, not a moment, but has torn at the vitals since 
Otho leaned across the bed, the little silver mallet in his 
hand. How still the room was! As still as the white 
face on the pillow. Three times he called him by his 
Christian name, tapping him on the forehead with every 
call! Cencius! Cencius! — Cencius! But there was no 
answer; how could there be? And he turned to the eight 
or ten of us gathered round. c His Holiness is truly dead,’ 
he said, and at a motion from his hand, seen through an 
open door, the De Profundis rose from the adjoining cham- 
ber. Aye — Honorius has the best of it.” 

He sat silent, and his mind shifted from the one great 
issue of the past day, the passing of a Pope, to that other 
which was the first’s sequence, the naming of his succes- 
sor. 

“There were nineteen in the Conclave — thirteen votes 
were needed to elect to the greatest power in the world. 
At the first trial there were five for Pelagius, Conti received 
six, I equalled Pelagius, and there were three scattering; 
five votes — five only — and it required thirteen to elect.” 
Easing his head in the chair he opened his eyes and 
glanced at Rivara standing by the table. 

“Sit down, man, sit down,” he said testily. “There 
is no need for ceremony — yet; Conti is Pope. Five — 
six — five — so was it last night and so was it this morning. 
Then two of the single votes were cast for Conti — Colonna’s 
doing, it was Colonna who fought for him, I could see that 
and I knew why. Conti is of the nobles, so is Colonna 
— I am of the people.” His full voice, rich even in its 
fatigue, roughened. “The people! It is not always 
wise to make light of the people — not in Rome ! But that 


CARDINAL PANDONE RETURNS 71 

made the vote five — eight — five, and I saw Montelengo 
grow thoughtful.” 

“Montelengo ?” said Rivara. 

“Montelengo, yes, Montelengo — Montelengo and I were 
agreed. Montelengo — but that does not matter. Again 
they took a vote, but they clung like limpets, and again 
there was the five — eight — five, with the one scattered 
vote. It was then they burnt the damp straw at two 
o’clock, and while it smoked Montelengo went across to 

Colonna. Then I knew ” He paused, half a breath 

as it were, like a man who steadies his nerve. “I knew 
that I must wait. Montelengo was right; my day was not 
yet. I love peace as Honorius loved peace, and a fiercer, 
more aggressive, more assertive, hotter tempered Pope 
may better suit the needs of the moment. And Gregory 
is beyond four score — beyond four score, fiery heat, and the 
unbridled passion of twenty, soon burn out the little that 
remains to the flesh. The Crusade is in doubt; that is a 
fret of itself. The Emperor needs a curb, if not a master. 
Gregory will give him both — or strive to ! That means war 
— war in Apulia, war in the Marches, war in Lombardy, 
war north and south, and perhaps later the Church will be 
glad of peace again. Yes, I agree that from every point 
Montelengo was right — the friends of Pelagius might have 
forestalled him and established a claim. Where should I 
have been then ? But they did not ; at the next vote Conti 
was elected by fourteen voices — Pelagius had still his faith- 
ful five. Montelengo was certainly right — with war at our 
doors and Gregory beyond four score it is better as it is.” 

Rivara sat silent. Perhaps that cry: Grant them wis- 
dom, Spirit of the Living God ! was in his ears, perhaps it 
was the Cardinal’s exhortation at the palace doors; per- 
haps he asked himself how a man of Montelengo’s reputa- 
tion, a notorious evil-liver, came to be associated with 
Pandone. In any case the time did not seem propitious 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


W 

for the mooting of his own heart’s desire, and it was a re- 
lief from an embarrassment when servants entered to pre- 
pare the table for supper. 

As they closed the door, their ministrations ended for 
the time ; Pandone roused himself. 

“Tell me of your mission — you say it was successful?” 

He listened with acute attention while Rivara related 
the history of his visit to Imola — the scanty collection 
already in the Cathedral coffers in anticipation of his 
coming, the excuses made, the difficulties raised, the flat 
refusals, all conspiring to compel that delay of a week 
his patron had lamented. By a curt question, or the 
simple dropping of a name from time to time, Pandone 
filled out the narrative. As Rivara, at the last, gave the 
sum total resulting from his diplomacy, the Cardinal’s 
face lightened a little of its gloom. 

“A miracle ! Blood from stones ! You are wasted 
here in this cramped life, Cosimo ; you should be with one 
of Emilia’s princes or grand dukes.” He paused, the 
reference reminded him of Bianca. “That girl may go 
back whence she came, she is too late; Honorius should 
have lived another three months! If he had lived, and 
she had sense, Colonna might have come to Montelengo, 
and — Pish! of what use words! We plan and foresee, 
building on a foundation of c ifs,’ and at a breath — or want 
of it — our f ifs’ are in ruins. Honorius is dead and Gre- 
gory is in his place. She is too late ; let her go back whence 
she came.” 

“She has certainly sense,” said Rivara, “and the Sig- 
norina Emilia, who is a better judge of such things than I, 
vows she will set all young Rome by the ears.” 

“Eh? She has looks then?” 

“Certainly she has looks.” Rivara had two objects 
clear in his mind — to gratify Emilia, who would be heart- 
broken to lose her newly-found cousin, and to repay Bianca 


CARDINAL PANDONE RETURNS 


73 


for more than one act of kindly consideration where Emilia 
was concerned; it was not probable that having just left 
Malazzorbo she yearned to return there within a week. 
He had no idea what lay in the Cardinal^ mind, but — 
again probably — just as he did not wish her to be a fool 
neither would he desire her to be a Gorgon. Pandone’s 
next words proved him right. 

“Sense and looks? Then had Honorius lived three 
months longer I would have won — if the sense is the right 
sense. But now!” he smote his palms on the chair-arms 
in a passion of vexation, “now the fifs ? are in ruins and 
it is too late; the election is lost.” Suddenly he sat up, 
his eyes fixed on Rivara but blind to Rivara as his mind 
flew to a speculation that swept far beyond the walls of 
the Palazzo Pandone. “Too late?” he repeated, inter- 
rogation in his tone, “perhaps not — perhaps not. Ugolino 
Conti — Gregory — is eighty years old and more — No ! per- 
haps it is not too late. Eighty years old ? Eighty ? There 
is still a possibility ; to-morrow I must see this Bianca.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A Family Gathering 

With the joy peals ceasing at sunset Rome had, for that 
night at least, relief from the tolling of bells. 

And to the Cardinal of San Marco del Monte the relief 
was doubly welcome — it not only made his sleep possible, 
but there was an end to the clamorous reminder that he 
had failed. Yet even while he acknowledged to himself 
the bitterness of that failure, he was not wholly dissatisfied. 
Montelengo had acted wisely. There would have been 
no defection from Conti’s followers, and without at least 
three of their votes there was no hope of his own election, 
since he might not vote for himself. 

It had been, therefore, a choice between the election 
of Conti and a deadlock — a deadlock which the supporters 
of Pelagius might at any moment have broken. But 
Montelengo, astutely looking ahead, as every wise man 
should do when the present fails him, had anticipated 
them, and Montelengo was certainly right. It had been 
an act of true statecraft, since by one stroke the new Pope 
and the Church at large had been placed under a debt to 
the party of Pandone. During Gregory’s lifetime, or after, 
that debt would be paid — Gregory was fourscore and over ; 
seven-and-forty could afford to wait, and Bianca need not, 
after all, return whence she had come. Such was the sum- 
ming up of his mature deliberations. 

It was the Cardinal’s custom to begin the day with a 
visit from the brother and sister, and the morning after 
the election brought no variation from the habit. In that 

74 


A FAMILY GATHERING 


75 


hour of familiar intercourse he learned many things his 
shrewdness could turn to account — from Emilia, the 
news of the household and the chatter of other girls of her 
age, bushels of chaff never without their kernels of solid 
grain; from Alessandro, the gossip of his fellows, the 
pranks, the quarrels, the love affairs and lighter intrigues 
of Rome, straws on the wind to show the drift of currents 
which might fill a prospering sail. 

But on this morning Emilia could not get beyond her 
cousin — it was Bianca this, Bianca that, Bianca with every 
sentence until at last Pandone, half vexed, half playfully, 
bade her fetch this wonderful Bianca and bring her in a 
quarter of an hour. Then, as Emilia left the room he 
turned to Alessandro: 

“What of this white swan your sister is so full of ?” 

“Red, not white, from all I hear/’ answered the lad, 
“but to tell the truth I have not seen her. Two nights 
ago she was tired and supped alone with Emilia ; next day 
I dined with Giro de Benincasa ” 

“Benincasa? Nephew to the Senator ?” 

“Yes, uncle.” 

“That is wise. Make friends upon all sides, enemies on 
none ; Benincasa may be useful. And then ?” 

Alessandro appeared embarrassed. “We supped — Oh, I 
forget where we supped, but it was not at the Palazzo, so 
I failed to see my cousin.” 

“Was that the night there was some question of kissing 
a wench at the Vico del Falcone?” 

’Sandro flushed hotly. “Rivara has been talking! I 
warned him not to meddle ” 

“Rivara has said never a word. Do you think I do not 
know what goes on in Rome? How else could I hold 
my place? As to the girl, kiss whom you will, boy, but 
when the Tiber’s in spate leave the Tiber alone. A corpse 


76 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


was washed up yesterday morning at the Ponte Rotto 
beyond the island.” 

For a moment young Pandone looked shocked, then he 
recovered himself with a shrug of the shoulders. “They 
should know how to swim, these river-side folk. Besides, 
uncle, it was not my doing. There were six of us ” 

“Yes, but they traced you here and so will cry Pandone ! 
Pandone ! Pandone ! forgetting the other five. There must 
be an end to these public follies, ’Sandro. There is too much 
at stake. I cannot afford to have the name of Pandone 
cursed in the lanes of Rome.” Rising, he laid a hand on 
the boy’s shoulder, and side by side they paced the room, 
the younger with a full, red lip pushed out in rebellion. 
The pressure of the hand, never a minatory pressure, tight- 
ened, “Yes, yes, I know — I am old and you are young, 
and the youth in you cries out that my age forgets it was 
ever young. Youth, you say, is the greatest thing in the 
world! But you are wrong. Every age brings its own 
greatness with it. Forgotten? No! Age that forgets 
its youth is never a wise age. And my age has not for- 
gotten — I am not such a fool but I know youth must be 
served. Of that I do not complain. Let Rome curse, but 
let the name be Savelli — Rinaldi — anything but Pandone. 
And do not make light of Rome; Rome seems to forget 
and then remembers when least desired — that is Rome’s 
way. Ah ! this must be your cousin Bianca. You are 
rested after your journey to Rome, I hope, my child? I 
am your uncle and this is your cousin, Alessandro.” 

Disengaging himself from Alessandro, the Cardinal held 
out his hand as he spoke, and Bianca, stooping, kissed the 
amethyst ring on his third finger. In the last few days 
she had often asked herself how she should greet this for- 
getful relative who had climbed so high, forgetting those 
of his blood left behind in the shade, and in the end had hit 


A FAMILY GATHERING 


77 


upon a course which left her angry sense of just resentment 
uncompromised. If he was an uncle he was also an eccles- 
iastic — a Prince of the Church; she would sink the rela- 
tionship in the office. 

“Yes, thank you. Father,” she answered, straightening 
herself. 

“Uncle, not Father; Father is for strangers,” said Pan- 
done benevolently. 

“I speak as I have been taught to think,” she replied. 

“Ah, my child, I fear your poor mother ” 

“It was you who taught me,” she interrupted, but with 
no break in the respectful level of her voice, “my mother 
never spoke of you.” 

His Eminence nodded gravely; his manner was at once 
reminiscent and regretful. “It was our misfortune that 
we never met. Emilia, my dove, and you, 5 Sandro, your 
cousin and I will ripen acquaintance more rapidly just we 
two alone. Do you dine at the palace, my son?” 

“Yes, uncle.” Since her entrance Alessandro’s eyes had 
never quitted Bianca and now his reply was prompt. 
With it a plan of three days’ standing, made with Rinaldi 
and two more of his boon companions, went by the board 
shamelessly. Emilia’s red swan was white after all ! 

“That is well. And to-morrow you can squire your 
cousin and Emilia to view the procession — with guards, 
of course?” 

“And Rivara to take care of Emilia — yes, uncle.” He 
turned to Bianca, the light of a rising excitement in his 

eyes. “We’ll go to but never mind where we’ll go. You 

need not be afraid to trust yourself with me, cousin.” 

Bianca laughed. The breaking up of her sombre gravity 
was the one touch needed to emphasise her beauty, and at 
sight of the sudden revelation of charm the Cardinal was 
moved to self-gratulation. Rivara had said she had looks; 
the under-statement was ridiculous. She had far more than 


78 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


looks; she had a presence, a ripened beauty unspoiled by 
self-consciousness. The only doubt now was, had she sense 
— sense of the right kind? Quite eagerly he waited her 
reply. 

“I am not easily afraid, cousin Alessandro — and there 
are always the guards ! We lost them at Saint Peter’s 
yesterday, and I was not afraid. If we lose them to-mor- 
row I promise not to faint.” 

“Lost them yesterday?” repeated Pandone, his comely 
face hardening, though the spirit of the answer had en- 
tirely pleased him, it promised sense. “Rivara did not 
tell me — Emilia, you might have been in danger — it was 
shameful ” 

But Emilia only laughed, a franker, fuller, more joyous 
laugh than her cousin’s. “There was no danger, uncle. 
I believe cousin Bianca is a witch and stamped on the pave- 
ment or said an incantation, for a paladin suddenly ap- 
peared — Oh! it must be good to be so strong! His name 
is Alvano, he is a cousin of Bianca’s and is lodging at the 
Albergo del Sole near the flower market. Uncle, you must 
thank ” 

“That will do, chatterer. Later you can tell me all 
about it, but now take ’Sandro off with you while Bianca 
and I learn to know each other. Go, my child, go, go,” 
and there was that in his voice which, privileged though 
they were, the brother and sister understood and never 
fought against. 

Left alone with Bianca the Cardinal motioned her to a 
stool near by his chair. How to break the ice troubled him. 
The high spirit of the girl was evident, that much her reply 
to ’Sandro had made clear; but there was also a personal 
antagonism, no less strong for being veiled under what he 
well knew was nothing more than conventional respect. 
Such high mettle was very desirable — necessary, almost 
for his purpose, but the defect of its quality, a prone- 


79 


A FAMILY GATHEKIYG 

ness to offence was a danger. An effusive or affectionate 
welcome was, he judged, a mistake to be avoided; the un- 
reality would be detected at once, and a bitter retort might 
strain tension to breaking point. To ignore the past, 
so far as possible, was wisest, and there, he thought, her 
pride would stand his friend. Finally he reverted to 
Emilia’s jesting reference to the loss of the guards in the 
atrium . 

“This Signor Alvano, your cousin, was a stranger to 
you, I suppose?” 

“Until yesterday I never heard of his existence; he was 
as unknown to me, even by name, as Emilia and Alessandro 
were a week ago.” 

The opening was unpromising, but Pandone made the 
best of it. “And yet I think already you love Emilia a 
little? That you have won her warm heart there is no 
doubt.” 

Bianca assented, but without enthusiasm. His Emi- 
nence she knew, had not brought her to Pome in such 
urgent haste for Emilia’s sake, since Emilia, until the 
previous week, had been ignorant of her coming. “I am 
sure her heart is warm. This,” and she touched the pur- 
ple taffeta, “is her gift.” 

“And better will follow,” blundered Pandone, smiling. 
“I daresay in Malazzorbo you do not find ” 

“I prefer my own home-spun,” she broke in, without 
heat as she had been without enthusiasm. “But I gathered 
from Emilia that it would shame your Eminence before 
your friends.” 

“There you misunderstood,” he protested. “But let 
the child have her way. It will be her pleasure — and 
mine.” 

For a moment the girl sat silent, frowning in thought, 
her warm-brown eyes gravely on his ; then her reply aston- 
ished him : “I do not like debts, but when I do not know 


80 GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 

what payment is expected I am afraid of them. Why am 
I in Eome, Father?” 

But again he was wise enough to avoid protests or pre- 
tences. 

“Leave that until after the procession to-morrow,” he 
temporised. And yet it was not altogether an evasion. 
The spectacle should serve a double purpose — it should 
show something of the supreme greatness possible to a 
Pandone, a greatness whose consummation she might aid, 
and also so stir her girl’s heart with the splendour and 
glitter of Eome that she would assent a willing “yes” to 
his scheme, rather than return to Malazzorbo — where there 
were no purple taffetas ! “Tell me something, rather, of 
this paladin cousin you conjured out of the stones of the 
atrium” 

“That was Emilia’s name for him, not mine.” If her 
uncle w r as content to leave her challenge unanswered she 
saw no need to press it home. At least he knew she was 
under no illusions, and for the present that was enough. 
“The cousinship is remote. I think he told me that his 
grandmother and mine were sisters. Emilia said you -would 
thank him for his aid. Perhaps it is unnecessary — Signor 
Eivara knows.” 

“Alvano? There are Alvanos in the south.” 

“He is from the south,” said Bianca, carefully indifferent. 

“I have heard of an Alvano in the employ of the Em- 
peror — in his confidence even?” 

There was an interrogation in the remembrance, and 
Bianca answered it. “He made no mention of the Em- 
peror, but when a slum ruffian — how foul-mouthed these 
Eomans are! — compared the Emperor to a Montelengo, I 
thought he would have killed the fellow for the insult.” 

“Ah !” said His Eminence contemptuously, “foul- 
mouthed, indeed, and always reckless to asperse the 
Church.” 


A FAMILY GATHERING 


81 


“But Signor Alvano’s anger was for the Emperor. The 
fellow said that this Montelengo always travelled with his 
cageful ” 

“My child ! My child V 9 cried Montelengo’s colleague, 
“you must not say such things. And which of us is above 
calumny? As for that latter-day Herod, that troubler of 
the Church and heretic harbourer of Saracens, the Emperor, 

it is flagrantly notorious that he ” Suddenly he 

paused, stumbling over his words like a man who finds an 
unexpected pitfall opening before him in the argument. 
So frank an avowal of common knowledge was not likely to 
advance his purpose in bringing the girl to Rome. “But 
men talk at random,” he went on with a deprecatory wave 
of his white hand, his magnificent voice rolling its periods 
splendidly. ‘Well said the great apostle, speak no evil 
of dignities; and yet in these modern days of irreligion 
and disrespect for the great, the higher the place the fouler 
the vilification. The Emperor ? Why, at this very mo- 
ment His Highness is vowed to a crusade for the recovery 
of the Holy Sepulchre. By his oath, freely given before 
the altar at San Germano two years ago in the presence 
of His Holiness, who was then the Cardinal Bishop of 
Ostia, he swore to sail for Palestine this coming August, 
under penalty of excommunication if he broke the vow. 
As a Christian king, a zealous son of the Church and an 
honourable gentleman, noble in spirit, chivalrous, brave 
to rashness, no doubt he will keep his oath; and yet, 
sworn Crusader though he is, not even he is free from cal- 
umny. Oh ! these foul-mouthed Romans ! My child, 
there is great truth in the proverb ‘If evil tongues burned 
like fire, the poor would have charcoal for nothing/ ” 

He paused, breathing a little heavily after the sustained 
exertion, but not ill-content. His facts were true, which 
is always comforting to a historian, and his deductions 
did himself and their subjects credit. Also he had paved 


82 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


a way to that answer to her question which the girl was 
to receive after she had been glamoured by the pageant 
of the Papal procession. He hoped she had failed to notice 
the abrupt transition from censure to eulogium, and it 
was with distinct annoyance that he heard her hark back 
to the original cause of difference. The girl was uncom- 
fortably thorough, uncomfortably tenacious. 

“Then, the Emperor being such a Christian gentleman. 
Signor Alvano was right to resent the odious comparison ?” 

Promptly Pandone rose to his feet. “Leave such things 
aside, leave them utterly aside — they are unseemly. Find 
Emilia ; yes, and Alessandro. I shall enquire from Rivara, 
and see that this Signor Alvano is properly thanked for his 
assistance. As to the malice of these street brawlers — 
forget it, my child, forget it. It is the nature of mud to 
spatter upwards; no man can walk a public path and 
keep his feet clean.” 

It was a sharp criticism of his day and generation but, 
for a generality, it struck not far from the truth. 


CHAPTEE IX 


Broken Bread Upon the Waters 

From the gateway of the Palazzo Pandone, Alvano, hav- 
ing been thanked frankly by Kivara, prettily by Emilia, 
and not at all by Bianca, with a promise of further thanks 
by His Eminence himself, took his way eastward in the 
direction of the southern slopes of the Quirinal. He walked 
slowly, like a man deeply preoccupied, avoiding the jost- 
ling of the ever-shifting crowd in the thronged streets more 
by instinct than observation. 

The imminent death of Honorius, long threatened and 
long delayed, with the consequent seating in Saint Peter’s 
chair of a new occupant, had drawn him to Eome in his 
master’s service. If to peace-loving Honorius there suc- 
ceeded another Pope equally mild in spirit, tolerant, and 
unambitious for the secular advancement of the Church, 
all would be well, but if not, then Frederick of Hohen- 
fctaufen, Emperor of the Eomans, King of Sicily and Apu- 
lia, King of Jerusalem, Duke of Suabia, Lord of Lom- 
bardy, and much more, must look to himself. 

Leaving on his right the rubbish heap that lumbered, 
and had lumbered for ages, Trajan’s Forum, a lurking 
place for pariah dogs, and the many petty thieves of the 
quarter, Alvano turned into a quiet street whose time-worn 
houses appeared to date back to the later Empire, so 
ancient were they, so stoutly, darkly built, and so defaced 
With scars of warfare. There were, perhaps, twenty such 
dwellings in this Eoman backwater of present quiet. 
Except for fire and sack most were as the builders’ hands 
had left them, many long-dead generations past, but upon 

83 


84 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


the ancient stock of some few the style and life of a new 
age had been grafted. 

It was one of these latter that Alvano entered. Its 
punning device and motto, a loaf of bread broken into 
four pieces with Frangi pane underneath, were known 
through the length and breadth of the seven hills. They 
dated from a time of famine in the city, when the head of 
the great house had literally broken his bread with the 
starving. 

“The Signor Erangipani ?” demanded Alvano, and 
thought it no slight when, having given his name, he was 
bidden to wait in the anteroom to the guard house. 

But the delay was short, and the respect with which he 
was conducted up the marble staircase proved the high 
estimation in which he or his master was held. 

On every side were quiet evidences of the wealth and 
refined taste to be expected in such a household, rooted 
through centuries in the soil of Rome’s greatness, and 
growing in power with the growth of the city. Trophies 
from the East, infidel arms and armour worn in every cru- 
sade since Peter the Hermit preached his Holy War, spoils 
from Egypt, riflings of Etruscan tombs, relics of old Rome, 
Saracen work from Spain, statuary, carvings, frescoes, 
mosaics, tapestries, all co-ordinated into a charm which 
was the gift of many generations. 

Alvano was received in what a later age would have 
called the cabinet of the Casa Frangipani, a room plain to 
severity, where the master transacted the business inci- 
dental to his estates, which largely consisted of property 
within the city. Otto Fragipani, grey haired, grey bearded, 
lean faced, dressed with a severe plainness that matched his 
workroom and accorded with his more than sixty years, 
greeted his visitor cordially, but delayed no further than 
the closing of the door, and the settling of the hangings 
back into their place, to shoot his question. 


BEEAD UPON THE WATEES 85 

“Ugolino Conti ! What will His Highness say ?” 

“Nothing, unless the Pope speaks,” answered Alvano, 
taking the seat Frangipani indicated near his own. 

“And that will not be long delayed, unless Gregory IX. 
differs greatly from the Cardinal Bishop of Ostia! Nor 
will he. The fire of one will be the flame of the other. 
But that is not what I mean, and why should we fence? 
What will the Emperor think of the election?” 

“That he would have preferred Pandone.” 

“Pandone!” Frangipani shrugged his shoulders. “Is 
it your master’s policy to degrade the Papacy?” 

“It is my master’s earnest wish to see Italy united under 
one strong head ” 

“Himself?” 

“Where is there a better?” 

“Go on ; but the millennium is either past or to come.” 

“To come, and we shall strive for it.” 

“We?” repeated Frangipani, jestingly, though there 
was no jest in his grave eyes. 

“Why not? Was there not once a mouse as well as a 
lion?” 

“Yes — in fable.” 

“Then I have faith in fables. Besides, what are fables 
but mirrors of life ? Signor Frangipani, as you have said, 
why should we fence ? Confess, now. Is it not a splendid 
dream this of the Emperor’s! A strong, clean Church, 
living for its great Head alone, and with no thought of 
the world except the world’s salvation ; a strong, clean State 
to safeguard the Church and leave her free to work out ” 

“Yes,” interrupted Frangipani, drily, “splendid — but a 
dream ! Will Conti abate one jot of his temporal power ! 
No ! By every saint in the calendar, no ! Eather, he will 
pile claim on claim till the whole world is shadowed; we 
in Eome know Conti.” 

The fire of enthusiasm flickered out of Alvano’s eyes 


86 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


and he sat back in his chair. ‘‘Then so much the worse 
for the world, and yet more the worse for Italy. But 
think of it for a moment — a united Italy, no longer an 
Italy north against south, east against west; no longer 
Lombardy at the throat of Sicily, Venice trampling upon 
Genoa, Florence threatening Pisa, but Italy four-square 
against the world. And the one figure that stands be- 
tween the dream and the reality is — the Pope !” Suddenly 
he leaned forward again: “Signor Frangipani, your own 
question, what do you think of the election?” 

“That the Pope is more than eighty years old.” 

“Yes, we have thought of that, too.” 

“We?” repeated Frangipani, but this time with inter- 
rogation rather than jest in his tone. It was not the first 
time they had talked together, and he was sure Alvano 
was not in Rome simply to learn who should succeed 
Honorius, nor even to gauge the temper of the city towards 
that successor, though that, no doubt, was part of his pur- 
pose. Something deeper lay behind, and in the event of 
that something deeper touching his House it behoved him 
to know with whom he had to deal. Alvano’s answer, 
delivered after a pause and with thoughtful deliberation, 
startled him. 

“It is my present intention to take Orders.” 

“You, a priest?” 

“Why not?” 

“A soldier?” 

“Again, why not? Colonna and Regnier, Cardinals 
both, are as good soldiers as they are churchmen.” Which 
was true, and no censure in an age when to lay aside the 
crozier for the sword was the commonplace of custom. 
Alvano might have gone further and said they were bet- 
ter soldiers than they were priests. 

“The question is not why not, but why?” 

Again Alvano paused and again his reply was deliberate. 


BREAD UPON THE WATERS 87 

“Because, as you have said, Gregory is more than eighty 
years old.” 

Frangipani made no immediate reply but, leaning aside, 
spread out his hands to the open pan of white wood-ash 
which — March can be cold in Rome — stood upon a tripod 
at his knee. When he spoke it was without turning his 
head. 

“I take your meaning. Without doubt you would climb 
high in the Church, but not to Saint Peter’s chair. That 
will never succeed — never ! An Imperialist Pope is — un- 
thinkable. It is another of your Emperor’s dreams.” 

“The greatest thing in the world,” said Alvano, “the 
greatest — the greatest,” but whether he spoke of the 
Papacy or the Emperor’s dream, was uncertain. Abruptly 
Frangipani shifted round in his chair. 

“Are you in Rome only to dream dreams, Signor 
Alvano ?” 

The swiftness of the attack staggered Alvano for a 
moment, but for a moment only, then he laughed. “We 
are not altogether visionary at Palermo, or at Capua, where 
my master is at present. I am in Rome upon a simple 
question of £. s. d. — librce, solidi , denarii ! And since we 
of the Empire are not hagglers I come to the point at 
once. The Emperor’s heart is set on buying the Casa 
Frangipani.” 

For a moment Frangipani stared incredulous, then a red 
wave of passion swept the greyness from his lean face. 

“The Casa Frangipani is not for sale, not even to the 
Emperor!” His voice rose sharply, hotly. “I thought 
better things of His Highness than to insult loyalty and 
friendship with such an offer! Would the Emperor sell 
his castle of Hohenstaufen that cradled his race? We are 
only simple gentlefolk, we Frangipani, but the house where 
our fathers lived and died ” 


“Signor! Signor! Signor!” Alvano laid a hand in 


88 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


protesting pressure on the elder man’s knee. “You must 
come to Palermo, or to Capua, and learn to know the 
Emperor better than you do. You thought yourself in- 
sulted, but it is you who insult us — the Emperor and Luca 
Alvano. Dispossess Frangipani? Not while there is a 
Rome and a Frangipani ! And so long as the one lasts so 
long will there be the other. Where would Rome be with- 
out its frangi pane?” 

“I do not understand your riddles,” said Frangipani, 
but no longer with passion in his voice. Alvano’s subtle 
flattery had cast it out. 

“That is because there is no riddle. At present, in 
common with most of the great Roman families, you hold 
all you possess within the city as a fief from the Pope ?” 

“In name — yes.” 

“In name — that I can well believe. A Frangipani in 
fief to, say, a Pandone except in name would be — what was 
your word? Unthinkable? But with Ugolino Conti will 
it remain a name only, or unthinkable? You know that 
hard old man and what a spirit he is of — stern, implaca- 
ble, insatiable. Not for himself, in Capua we do not mis- 
judge him; his greed will not be for himself but for the 
Church, his intolerable pretensions not to exalt Hgolino 
Conti, the man, but Gregory, Christ’s Yicar and Vicegerent 
upon earth. But the result will be the same. The dust 
will be blown from his path, the small ground to powder, 
the great broken to pieces, unless the Emperor says ‘Your 
kingdom is not of this world!’ And who else dares say 
it but the Emperor? Signor Frangipani, I mean no dis- 
paragement, but the fiefs of Rome will be pebbles for the 
grinding. Ask yourself if it is not so, I will accept your 
answer without cavil.” 

But Frangipani gave no such answer, at least not 
directly, nor did Alvano expect the pride of the race which 
had resented the supposed rough touch of an Emperor to 


BREAD UPON THE WATERS 


89 


confess despair before the shadow of even such an aggres- 
sion as he had pictured. 

“Leaving all that aside,” he replied, “what has your 
master to say to me?” 

“This — sell me what you possess in Rome, and I shall 
put it back into your hands again to hold from me. Is 
it not better to hold from Hohenstaufen than from a pos- 
sible Pandone? But perhaps you will reply — ” Alvano’s 
voice deepened as he dwelt on his words with slow delibera- 
tion — “Perhaps you will object, how can I sell at all with- 
out the permission of my overlord ? I answer ” 

“When the question is asked you can answer it, Signor 
Alvano. Erangipani does as he wills with his own. The 
question rather is Cui bono ? Of what advantage is it?” 

But Luca Alvano had not travelled from Capua without 
an answer to such an obvious question, and when, an hour 
later, he returned to the Albergo del Sole, he was well 
enough content. Gregory’s joy bells were pealing over- 
head from every Church tower, but to Alvano’s instructed 
ear there was already a discord in the harmony. His 
master had set a foot in Rome; what Frederick claimed 
Frederick would hold against the Pope himself, even 
though that Pope were Ugolino Conti! 


CHAPTER X 


At a Roman Inn 

All the next day Alvano was busied in the delicate and 
dexterous advancement of his master’s service. With its 
details and its success this story has nothing to do, but so 
much has been told that his place in the Emperor’s confi- 
dence and their common plans for Italy may be clear. 

He was resting in his room at the close of the day, his 
mind full of many speculations, when an unwonted com- 
motion in the inn below stairs roused him by making con- 
centrated thought impossible. Uncertainly he had been 
conscious of an added uproar in the street but had given it 
no heed, the nearness of the flower market accounted for 
sudden brawls. Then the confusion had quieted until it 
broke out afresh below, followed by a tramp of feet on the 
stairs, and the landlord’s voice, raised in pride. 

“Such an honour, your Holiness — your Eminence, I 
mean. Keep back there, good people, keep back; do not 
press so closely upon His Eminence, you incommode him.” 
Very carefully he spoke in such a voice that none of the 
glory shed upon his house should be lost for the want of 
telling. Cardinals were not uncommon in Rome, but they 
were far from common in the inns of Rome. 

“Signor Alvano is lodged in the Saint Zosimo chamber, 
but had we known he was a friend of your Eminence we 

would have given him the Apollo ” 

“What !” broke in Pandone ; he was occasionally blessed 
with a sense of humor, but only when he was quite cer- 
tain of his dignity, “does a Pagan god rank higher than 
Saint Zosimo, a Pope and Father of the Church?” 

90 


AT A ROMAN INN 


91 


“Ah no, your Holiness, that would be impossible, 
but — ” the landlord paused, stricken at once by an idea 
and shortness of breath. Here was an opening for an ad- 
vertisement which would hand down the glory of this day’s 
greatness to unborn generations. “Your Eminence,” 
he said, timidly, “if I might be permitted to call the Apollo 
room by the name of Pandone as a commemoration, a 
thank offering, as it were, for the honour ” 

“Um,” said Pandone, “that is as you please. But I am 
pressed for time. Where is this Saint Zosimo chamber?” 

“Your Eminence, I am your grateful servant for life. 
The Pandone room ! That shall be a room to remember ! 
Travellers shall tell of it from Sicily to Milan! Saint 
Zosimo? Just a step, your Eminence, just a step.” 

It was no fault of Pandone’s that the landlord’s zeal 
flung open the door without the preliminary courtesy of a 
knock; but, warned through the chinks of the ill-fitting 
frame of the honour in store for him, Alvano was on his 
feet ready to receive his visitor. Eor an instant the eyes 
of the two men met, then, as the Cardinal’s glance swept 
comprehensively round Saint Zosimo, noting its almost 
sordid discomfort, Alvano fell mightily in his estimation. 

Like Frangipani he guessed that the Emperor’s confidant 
was not in Rome solely to hear the result of the Conclave, 
and an undefined expectation of reaping some possible ad- 
vantage to himself had prompted his visit rather than any 
gratitude for the help given in the atrium. But surely, 
he thought, with a sudden sense of chilling disappointment* 
Alvano’s influence at Palermo must be exaggerated — • 
no confidant of the Emperor could be so vilely housed! 
Then, almost in the same instant, came a second thought, 
and Alvano leaped into yet higher reputation — the greater 
and more secret the mission the less he would advertise 
his presence in Rome, and so his content with the humble 
inferiority of Saint Zosimo was explained. 


92 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Signor Alvano? And from the south, I think?” 
he said briskly. “Good! Then I have been directed 
aright. You can leave us, friend,” and he nodded to the 
host. Nor did he speak again until the door was closed, 
shutting in His Eminence and Father Pieretti, His Emi- 
nence’s private chaplain and secretary in ecclesiastical 
affairs, a little round-faced, apple-cheeked cleric who was 
his patron’s shadow; some said his patron’s brains. But 
that was a libel. “Signor Alvano, I have come to pay a 
debt of thanks.” 

“The debt is mine, your Eminence,” answered Alvano. 
“To aid two charming ladies, gain the happiness of your 
Eminence’s acquaintance, and find an unexpected cousin 
— why, it’s a triple debt! But your Eminence must be 
fatigued,” and seizing his one chair, an angular rush-bot- 
tomed assurance of discomfort, Alvano pushed it gravely 
forward. “It is the sole throne allowed the poor saint; 
but perhaps he was an ascetic and despised luxuries,” he 
added, his eyes twinkling. 

“Um, you would have done better in the Apollo cham- 
ber,” said the Cardinal, seating himself nevertheless. It 
marked their relative dignities. “But youth can ignore 
hardship, and no doubt you are busied abroad in the city. 
His Highness will be overjoyed at the choice of the Con- 
clave ?” 

“Without doubt, equally with your Eminence,” answered 
Alvano gravely. “His Holiness’ wisdom is certainly ripened 
by age.” 

“Yes,” pursued Pandone, ignoring the double inuendo, 
“it must be a great satisfaction to the Emperor that the 
hand from which he took the cross before the altar at San 
Germano is now ready to bless the crusade?” 

This time it was Alvano who let the suggestiveness pass 
without a reply. “My master will always humbly desire 
the Pope’s blessing.” He spoke deliberately, looking down 


AT A KOMAN INN 


93 


unsmiling into Pandone’s smiling eyes. But behind the 
smile there was set the watchfulness of the duelist who feels 
the touch of his adversary’s steel upon his own, and is alert 
for thrust or parry. 

“Do you accompany His Highness to Palestine?” 

“I am in all things at His Highness’ orders.” 

“Ah !” said Pandone in his rich, sonorous voice, “to 
serve is the privilege of life. I have heard His Holiness 
say that his chief desire is to be the Servant of servants. 
And the expedition, no doubt, is well forward?” 

“Does your Eminence speak as a soldier ?” 

Pandone fluttered a white hand in the air. “Signor 
Alvano, I am for peace, always for peace ; never forget that, 
I beg. I speak as man to man.” 

“Then as man to man — if the freedom may be forgiven 
me — I can say with confidence that the expedition is as far 
forward as the Emperor desires.” 

The smile dulled in Pandone’s eyes and there was a 
silence. Would the crusade sail? — that was the question 
which troubled the Church and which he hoped to solve in 
the Zosimo chamber. Alvano’s evasions said, no ! And 
yet he had uttered no phrase inconsistent with the Em- 
peror’s good faith. Should he probe the doubt further ? If 
he probed and failed would he not injure, perhaps destroy, 
Bianca’s usefulness — always supposing Bianca had the 
sense of her good looks ? 

And so for half a minute there was a pause. That grey 
old wolf, Gregory, has sent him as a spy, said Alvano in 
his thoughts. But Alvano was wrong. The Cardinal 
fought for his own hand. Any chestnuts raked from the 
fire of controversy between the Church and the Empire, 
would be for his own consumption. Hyperbole aside, 
Giordano Pandone had his thoughts set on personal credit 
gained before the next Conclave. 


94 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

And while both pondered, Father Pieretti broke the 
silence. 

“His Holiness has this deeply at heart, your Eminence. 
What if you were to bring Signor Alvano to the Vatican? 
Supposing there are really preparations ” 

Round swung Alvano. At all costs that must be pre- 
vented. He might fence Pandone, but to face the inquisi- 
tion of Gregory’s keener brain, backed by his tremendous 
authority and indomitable, autocratic will, would be 
fatal. 

“Supposing ! Supposing ! Supposing !” he repeated 
angrily, almost truculently. “What, Father ? Do you dare 
to hint aspersion on my master ?” 

But Pandone intervened. For reasons of his own any 
present appeal to Gregory would be as distasteful to him 
as to Alvano. “Peace, Pieretti, peace. His Holiness would 
give us small thanks for adding to his already heavy bur- 
dens at such a time as this.” 

But as a soldier Alvano, who thus far had been on his 
defence, knew the value of a sortie. It may not discom- 
fit the enemy, but at least it proves the spirit of the garri- 
son. 

“Your Eminence,” he protested indignantly, “there was 
a slur upon my master, and from the Church. Can it be 
that the Church doubts ” 

“Chut, chut,” interrupted Pandone, with the depreca- 
tory wave of his hand which rarely failed to soothe. “The 
Church ! Must it rain because a frog croaks ? Besides, 
I am not here to talk of such things; I am here solely to 
thank with all my heart a most gallant gentleman ” 

Alvano interrupted him with a gesture. “Your Emi- 
nence, I am already over thanked.” 

Once more all smiles the Cardinal ran his hand down the 
length of his silken beard: “Signor Alvano, to please 
others you have once found your way to the Palazza Pan- 


AT A ROMAN INN 


95 


done, find it a second time to please — these others again! 
Over thanked ! When I was young there was no such 
word ! Your cousin and her cousin have warm memories; 
may I tell them you will come ?” And what could Alvano 
do but bow his acknowledgment of such gracious courtesy 
from a Prince of the Church, even while he said in his 
heart that the Palazza Pandone would never again be dark- 
ened by him. His Eminence might be there, and His Emi- 
nence was too much a living interrogation. 

But when His Eminence’s litter, with its guards before 
and behind, had departed from the heart of the gaping 
crowd, leaving Alvano, the host and half the household 
bareheaded at the inn door, the apple-cheeked chaplain 
returned to his point. 

“Father, His Holiness and the Church would have 
thanked you for news through that Signor Alvano — and 
another election may not be far off.” 

“Be easy,” answered Pandone. “When I have brought 
His Holiness that which I shall bring him, he and the 
Church will do more than thank me. And to you I say. 
Forget, and you shall not be forgotten. This Alvano 
would only have told us half-truths at the best, and we 
must have full assurance.” The Cardinal’s mind was 
made up. His forethought in bringing Bianca to Rome 
had been wise; if the girl lacked sense, she must be taught 
sense. 


CHAPTER XI 


The Procession- of Pope Gregory IX 

The day following was the day of the great procession 
when all Rome would line the streets from Saint Peter’s to 
the Lateran, or bear a part in the glittering spectacle itself. 
On such a day Alvano knew even the Emperor’s service 
must stand aside ; for policy’s sake the chiefs of the greater 
houses must show themselves in public, honouring the 
Church through her newly-elected head. It was the first 
time he had been in Rome for such a pageant, but apart 
from curiosity a higher interest drew him to the streets 
- — that he might judge something of the temper of the 
people. 

Starting from before Saint Peter’s five-fold doors, the 
procession would, he knew, cross the bridge which spanned 
the Tiber almost under the frown of the Castel Sant’ An- 
gelo, by the Via Parione it would make its way by a devious 
route through the quarter of that name, one of the oldest 
in Rome, halting by the tower of Stephani Petri, hard by 
the Flower Market, that the Jews from the Ghetto, on the 
bank of the river, might make their submission according 
to established custom. In Rome, as elsewhere, suffrance 
was the badge of all their tribe. From the ancient tower 
the pageant would sweep to the eastward past Constan- 
tine’s Church of San Marco, and on by Trajan’s Column 
and Sant’ Adriano to the Forum, a rubbish heap of shat- 
tered masonry and tumbled columns half buried, and 
wholly overgrown by the weeds of generations. This it 
would enter through the Arch of Septimus Severus, travers- 
ing the uneven ground as best it could to the Arch of Titus, 
and so by the Colosseum and San Clemente to the Lateran. 

96 ' 


THE PROCESSION 


97 


Leaving the inn, Alvano pushed his way through the 
crowd in the direction of the tower of Stephani Petri. 
There, he judged, he would see the underworld of Rome at 
its best and worst. It was one of the five selected places 
on the route — the other four were: before Saint Peter’s, 
at the Cencius Palace, and in front of San Marco and Sant’ 
Adriano — where, again according to established custom, 
the newly-elected Pope showered largesse, and Alvano 
knew no surer test of a mob’s temper than the reception 
of its master’s bounty. 

The good humor which had served him in the atrium 
two days before again stood him in stead, but so dense was 
the throng that the hour for the arrival of the head of 
the procession had almost sounded by the time he had won 
a road to the open space fronting the tower. Its square, 
solid bulk has long since disappeared; the Palazza Pio 
now stands upon the ancient site. Once placed, Alvano 
looked about him with a healthy curiosity. 

The approaches and the space itself were kept clear from 
intrusion by the Papal guard, and Alvano’s glance fell 
on the deputation of Jews grouped in a little knot in the 
enclosure. There were, he counted, twelve in all, and 
wondered if they represented the number of the ancient 
tribes. Without a doubt they had been well chosen by 
their fellows; Judaism never permits itself to disgrace itself 
in the public eye. Their gaberdines might be of common 
stuff, but the men were not of common fibre. Erect, 
grey-bearded, dignified, there was not a man of them 
but in inches and intellect looked down upon the jeering 
rabble they ignored. In a sense they were the wealth of 
Rome, in a commercial sense the stability of Rome, but 
the rabble, who had no stability and hated wealth 
with the bitter gall of envy, jeered them as dogs. At their 
head was the Chief Rabbi, the Roll of the Pentateuch on 
his shoulders. 


98 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“The law in your face and the profits in his pocket! 
That’s a true Jew !” cried one of the crowd, and all roared 
at the jest. “The law and the profits/’ they shouted. 
“The law for us and the profits for the Jew/’ and one 
struck up : 

Ever since the world began 
Reuben, Issachar and Dan 
Picked the pocket of every man. 

Hou! hou! hou! 

“Hou! hou! houT howled the mob in chorus, “Hou! 
hou! houT But the Jews, impassive, silent, motionless 
as statues hewn out of grey travertine, gave no sign that 
they heard. Without doubt they did not forget. 

“See Israel, the goldsmith, third from the last,” cried 
another. “Hola! Israel! Has Bobone tired of your 
little Rachel yet?” and again they chorused, “Hou! 
hou! hour Then they rocked with laughter as a ragged 
urchin, breaking cover, tweaked the skirt of the Rabbi’s 
gaberdine, but laughed yet louder when a smart stroke 
from a guard’s halberd sent the boy sprawling; it was all 
sport and meat to the mob. 

From the grey, patient group in the open space Alvano’s 
alert gaze wandered over the shifting crowd. It was the 
scum of Rome leavened by a sprinkling of the curious 
such as himself, and a proportion of artisans drawn there, 
like the scum, by the promised donation. A splash of 
purple in the sunlight on a balcony on his own side of the 
street caught his observation. Leaning forward across the 
rail and keenly interested was Bianca Pandone ; it was easy 
to guess that the lad who shared the balcony with her was 
Alessandro. 

Remembering the adventure of the atrium , Alvano 
searched the crowd before the house, but no guard in the 
Cardinal’s livery could be seen. The explanation was 
simple. Sure of Rivara’s disapproval young Pandone 


THE PROCESSION 


99 


had evaded the escort in the crowd and brought his cousin 
to this vantage point, reserved long before to be shared 
with someone probably very different. 

And Alvano, as he understood, grew even more hotly 
angry than Rivara would have done — the house was the 
shop of Susanna Ligorio, the perfume seller, at times a 
vendor of love philtres and such-like potions, but at times 
suspected of a worse traffic. 

To do Pandone justice, the choice of the place had been 
nothing worse than a boyish thoughtlessness, blent with 
the desire to prove himself already a man of the world 
well versed in the ways of Young Rome. To that was 
added the purpose of securing entirely to himself for an 
assured hour this beautiful cousin who had so suddenly 
fallen from nowhere. Half Rome would pass that way, 
and all who saw would envy him. But Alvano, stranger 
in the city though he was, knew enough of the reputation 
and associations of the perfumer to be afraid, and reso- 
lutely forced his way through the crowd until he reached 
the closed door. It was just then that, heralded by a rous- 
ing roar up the street, the head of the procession came in 
sight and Rome, clean and unclean, was spectacle-bound 
for an hour. 

Behind a led horse, housed in the Papal trappings of 
red and gold, rode the crucifer , bearing his huge silver 
cross, polished and glittering, reared high for all to see. 
Next followed, also on horseback, the standard-bearers of 
the twelve wards into which the city was divided, their 
crimson pennons gay in the breeze; then came the golden 
cherubim, borne upon lances, the prefects of the navy in 
the furred garments of their office, the judges clad in 
their black robes, each with two servitors, one on either 
side, a hand upon the horse’s bridle; next, a band of 
choristers, in white surplices crossed by crimson scarves; 
then priests and dignitaries of the Church in a rising scale! 


100 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


from the humble sub-deacon, tramping afoot in his cassock 
of coarse black stuff, to My Lord Cardinal upon his led 
palfrey and gorgeous in crimson, purple, white and gold. 

Hollowing the princes of the Church came the Church’s 
Head riding upon a white mule, his attire a miracle of 
splendour, and attended upon either side by the flower of 
Rome’s nobility. Immediately behind Gregory rode the 
Gonfalonier of the Church, bearing the Papal standard; 
Benincasa, the Senator followed, surrounded by his offi- 
cers; next came the Prefect of the City, then the nobles, 
the knights, the city guilds, each and all with the flutter- 
ing of banners, the play of colour, the glittering of mail, 
the following of squires and guards that marked their 
degree and station. And always, from first to last, there 
was the music of a solemn chant in the air, now from the 
choristers, now from the long line of priests, now from the 
guilds who looked up to the Pope for patronage in their 
craftsmanship. 

So extended was the line of varying splendour, a line 
sparkling with jewels, crusted with gold and silver, bril- 
liant with every hue of the rainbow and scintillating in a 
broken stream of starry fire from polished armour, inlaid 
and damascened, that it occupied a long hour in passing 
a given spot. And every minute of that hour had its 
shift of mood for the packed mob, as those Rome loved or 
hated, feared, trusted or despised, rode past at a foot’s pace. 

In these shifts of mood, with their shouted applause 
or howled derision, Alvano saw the drift of the straws 
which showed how the winds blew in Rome. Nor was he 
dissatisfied. It was surely significant and full of comfort 
for the Empire that, even on a day when the glamour of 
the Church was in the ascendant, when the senses of 
spectacle-loving Rome were tickled by splendour dis- 
played in that Church’s honour, and the goodwill of the 
groundlings bribed by a Pope’s largesse, Prangipani, the 


THE PROCESSION 


101 


Imperialist, should be greeted with acclamations, while 
Castiglione, the fanatic clerical partisan, whose brother 
had been Gregory’s uncompromising supporter in the Con- 
clave, was cursed to his face or received in stony silence. 

Colonna, Regnier, Capuccio, Cardinals all, were cheered, 
but Alvano judged from the freely-spoken opinions upon 
every side that it was the soldier the mob applauded, not 
the churchman. For Pandone there was a mixed reception, 
but always the goodwill bore down the ill as the women 
found their voices. Given a Conclave of women cardinals, 
thought Alvano, Pandone would certainly be elected Pope 
by a unanimous vote! Montelengo they openly jeered. 

Everywhere Gregory himself was received with enthus- 
iasm. Had it been possible the crowd, scum and all, 
would have gone on its knees as he passed, but the con- 
gestion of the packed space forbade. Failing that rever- 
ence, every head was bared and bent for his blessing, 
Alvano’s with the rest; was he not Christ’s vicar upon 
earth, the direct successor of him to whom was given the 
power to shut or to open, to loose or to bind ? By his own 
will he could bring peace upon earth, or a sword; where 
was there a greater greatness? 

In the half minute of Gregory’s approach Alvano, before 
bowing his head with the rest, studied him anxiously. 
Eighty years and more, men said. But there was no sign 
of the weakness of age in the erect carriage of the square 
shoulders, the high-poised head, the quick, firm gestures 
of the hand as he blessed the bowed people to right and 
left; rather, there was the suggested strength, the quick 
assurance of a man’s prime. His eyes were keen and alert* 
full of vitality and the power of intellect, the nose large 
and dominant, the mouth stern and purposeful, the chin 
prominent to obstinacy. Only the sunken cheeks, the 
hollows at the temples, a leanness of the neck, hinted the 
waste of years. It was as if the flesh had aged, while the 


102 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

spirit held tenaciously to the indomitable vigour of its 
unbroken manhood. A strong face, a stern face ; the face 
of a man with the pride of youth and the obstinacy of old 
age, of a man powerfully self-reliant, a man whose will 
would neither hesitate nor turn back — then the white hand 
went up in benediction and Alvano bowed his head. 

Next moment, at the blare of a trumpet, the procession 
halted, and the silence grew intense as the Chief Rabbi 
advanced to Gregory’s knee and raised towards him the 
Roll of the Law, at the same time, and in a set form of 
words which he might not vary, praying for the Pope’s 
protection. Behind him stood the eleven, their heads bent 
humbly, their hands crossed upon their breasts. It was an 
ancient form, this submission of the Ghetto to the Church, 
but Gregory was not slow to give the form a vital signifi- 
cance. Touching the roll with his palm, he motioned it away. 

“Yes, yes, Rabbi Ezra ben Hosea, we also love and rev- 
erence your ancient books, but though the law came by 
Moses, grace and truth came by Jesus Christ. As for you,” 
he reared himself more upright in the saddle, and from the 
bowed heads of the Jews his keen gaze swept the hushed 
crowd, “to you, yes, and to all men, we say, obedience 
brings peace; live quietly and ye shall be left in quiet; 
meddle with nothing that doth not concern you and ye 
shall not be meddled with. Ride on !” and the procession 
moved forward. 

But Alvano had received his message as definitely as if, 
out of all the listening multitude, the Pope had spoken 
into his ear alone. Honorius, recognising that duty speaks 
with many voices, had twice given the Emperor respite 
from his oath; Gregory recognised but one duty — obey! 
And to him the sole obedience which counted for righteous- 
ness was obedience to the Church. 

“Obedience brings peace.” 

Alvano neither saw the glitter of mail nor heard the 


THE PROCESSION 


103 


clank of steel as the long line of knights rode by with jingle 
of sword-sheath and clank of armour, as if to lend force 
and significance to the threat. For threat it was. If 
obedience meant peace, then to disobey, to venture a no 
to the Church’s yes, was war. Nor, in any case, would 
the knights with their glitter of mail and clang of steel 
have given him a troubled thought. The Church, no doubt, 
would fight with these, but her most deadly weapons were 
to be found in no soldier’s armoury, and the Emperor had 
himself put one into her hand the day be invoked excom- 
munication if he hung back from the Crusade. 

Excommunication, with interdict to follow! If these 
were launched what hope could there be for a united Italy 
to stand four-square to her enemies ? For that there must 
be peace, and only obedience could bring peace. But 
obedience was the Crusade, the sailing in August, the long 
months in Palestine away from the growing development 
of Sicily, away from Italy where the strong hand and clear 
brain were urgently needed. Obedience brings peace? 
Vaguely Alvano understood the nobles were passing in 
defile, Frangipani to be cheered, Castiglione hissed ; after- 
wards he remembered these things, but at the moment not 
even these were clear. Obedience brings peace ! Yes, peace 
from the Church, but war in Italy, the ruin of Sicily and 
the breaking up of a life’s ideal. 

A wild surge of the packed mob brought Alvano, or his 
thoughts, hastily back from Capua to Rome. The city 
guilds had passed, to be followed by Gregory’s chamber- 
lains scattering silver in double fistfuls through the open 
space, and the scramble for the spoil had roused Alvano. 

“The gift of the Holy Father, out of his great love for 
the people of Rome,” they cried, flinging the coins to right 
and left. “All that he hath he shareth with his people.” 

The scene that followed beggared description. If the 
object of the largesse distributed in these open spaces was, 


104 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


in part, to draw off congestion from the narrower streets 
it, perhaps, succeeded, but at ^terrible risk. As starved 
rats fight for their food so Rome fought, scum and artisan 
together, in an irresponsible Maelstrom that obeyed no 
impulse but the blind passion of greed. Women were 
flung aside, weakness trampled, whoso went down in the 
rush stayed down and in an instant, almost, the air was 
filled with screams and shrieks, curses and the wailing of 
children, as the thin crust of civilisation crumbled and out 
of the ruins the primitive human beast burst forth, naked 
and unashamed. But in three minutes the storm had passed 
leaving behind it as echo groans, panting breath, jeers, 
exclamations and hysterical crying. 

That was the moment chosen by Alessandro Pandone 
to demonstrate still further to Bianca what a consummate 
man of the world he was, and how patrician in his con- 
tempt for the groundlings. Hitherto she had treated him 
with amused tolerance rather than the admiration he knew 
was his due. Once and for all he would show her her mis- 
take. Filling the wide-mouthed goblet he had emptied 
more often than was wise in his assertion of mature man- 
hood, he stood up and leaned over the rail of the balcony. 

“Hullo, down there !” he shouted. “You must be hot 
after your grovelling for coppers, perhaps this will cool 
you,” and with a wide gesture of his arm he sent the wine 
flying. Alvano, his back against the door of the house, 
where he had withdrawn from the swirl of the Maelstrom, 
saw it hang in the air a moment, then split up and fall in 
a red rain, a rain like the first droppings of a shower of 
blood, on the passionate faces upturned at the sudden call 
in the half silence. 

The effect was immediate. With a howl of fury mad- 
ness broke loose afresh in execrations, threats, abuse, till 
above the din a voice cried out : “Pandone !” then another, 
a woman’s, shrill and clear, “The Vico del Falcone!” 


THE PROCESSION 


105 


Instantly the general, scattered hate flamed to a 
focus. “Pandone ! Pandone !” rose in a howl, “Pandone 
who drowned Luigi Luti!” And Alvano, on the upper 
of the two steps from the street level, had no more than 
time to draw his sword when the rush started in flood, 
to ebb back before that thirty inches of steel and the stern 
face above it. 

“Pandone ! by some back way, quick ! — quick !” he 
shouted, thinking not of Pandone but of Bianca. 

But Pandone only bent lower over the rail. “Bah ! Give 
the dogs a bone! There, dry the spatters with that,” and 
he flung a handful of coins into the sea of upturned faces. 

The contempt was too gross even for the scum of Rome 
to endure. Or it may be those behind saw the promise of a 
larger loot over the bodies of those in front, for under 
pressure of the rear the ebb rose afresh in flood. 

Now was Alvano in the pinch of a cleft stick. Of himself 
he gave no thought, but to brawl in Rome, shedding the 
blood of Rome, even of its scum, was not in his master’s 
interests; it might be remembered against the Empire, 
yet leave the way open to murder he could not, his master 
would be the last to ask it of him. His difficulty was im- 
personal; already he had forgotten that it was this new, 
far-off cousin who was threatened. In the end, and it was 
all within ten seconds, he tried a desperate expedient, 
desperate because of its doubtfulness and because it would 
leave him a marked man in Rome — if he lived. 

“God and the Empire!” he shouted, his blade shifting 
from end to end of the half circle before him in such a 
vicious, rapid threat that even the flood recoiled against the 
hinder pressure. “Pandone ! For the signorina’s sake, 
escape by the back while there’s time — quick ! quick !” Then 
he caught up afresh his thundered slogan, “God and the 
Empire ! God and the Empire ! Who is on my side ? Who ?” 

And the desperate expedient succeeded. Out of the very 


106 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

midst of the press a burly figure in a butcher’s dress thrust 
itself head and shoulders above the swaying sea, and a roar 
like the roar of a baited bull answered Alvano. 

“God and the Empire !” he bellowed. “I’m Cecco ! Give 
place there, ye dogs ; I’m Cecco, and you know me.” 

Evidently they did, they and all the Parione quarter. 
So far as was possible they shrank aside as he drove his 
way towards Alvano, using his brutal strength brutally. 
Those who barred his path, whether by will or through 
helplessness, suffered. It seemed the end of the crisis. 
From a score of places rose an echo to Alvano’s call “God 
and the Empire,” whilst overhead there was a scrambling 
rasp, and simultaneously with Cecco’s final thrust through 
the crowd, Alessandro Pandone dropped alongside Alvano. 

“Aye ! I am Pandone,” he cried. “You know where to 
find me if you want to — but you won’t want !” 

That stirred the fire afresh. “Damn Pandone !” cried a 
voice. “Who drowned Luigi Luti ?” cried another, and the 
last state might have been worse than the first but that 
the door opened behind the three on the upper step and 
Bianca appeared. Placing a hand on the shoulder of each 
of her cousins she leaned forward between them, calm- 
faced and unafraid. 

“I, too, am a Pandone,” she said. 

There was the briefest of silences, then the fickle temper 
of the mob changed as a weather-vane veers from north 
to south in a flawed wind. “Viva la signorina,” they cried 
as heartily as before they had cursed, “Viva! Viva! Pan- 
done ! Pandone ! Pandone !” 

Had the Cardinal heard that shout it would surely have 
rejoiced him. Is not the voice of the people the voice of 
God? and is it not the same voice that speaks its whisper 
in the Conclave? More than ever he would have felt 
assured he had done well in fetching Bianca from Malaz- 
zorbo. 


CHAPTER XII 


Rome or Malazzorbo 

Following the traditional Banquet of Accession, held, as 
usual, in the dining-hall of the Lateran Palace upon the 
afternoon of the pageant, Giordano Pandone returned home 
full of satisfaction in the present, and of hope for the 
future. Both sprang from the one source — the signal 
attention and favour shown him by Gregory. 

According to custom the Pope had sat at a table apart, 
in symbol of his splendid and tremendous isolation from 
the world, but not so far removed as to preclude conversa- 
tion. To all the dignitaries, both lay and clerical, he 
addressed himself in turn, but time after time it was the 
Cardinal of San Marco del Monte whom he singled out 
from amongst them all. Then, the banquet over, it had 
been upon Pandone’s arm, with Benincasa, the Senator, 
upon the other side, that the Holy Father, a very weary old 
man, had walked to his private apartments. 

“We must lean on those on whom the Church leans,” 
he had said, loud enough for all to hear and with a friendly 
significance in his tone which meant more than the mere 
words. 

But perhaps that very extreme weariness, with its clear 
evidence of the crushing weight of years, had been the 
day’s most satisfactory feature. It had been as remark- 
able as Gregory’s obvious goodwill, so remarkable that 
Montelengo had later plumed himself to Pandone on the 
astuteness which had snatched a future victory out of 
immediate defeat. 


107 


108 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“Let him keep the chair warm/* he added. “It can- 
not be for long and it’s not lost time; his preference will 
be remembered when the day of election comes. All that 
is wanted now is' some sudden stroke, some public service 
to the Church, to bring your name boldly forward and so 
make assurance sure. But,” and his voice deepened with 
significance, “if such a stroke is possible it had better not 
be long delayed.” 

And such a stroke Pandone told himself was certainly 
possible ; nor, if Bianca had sense, would it be long delayed. 
She had the necessary wit, the brains; of that he was cer- 
tain, but would she have that other quality without which 
wit and brains would be useless, a quality which could not 
be described by any one word, perhaps because many qual- 
ities went to its making — courage, audacity, endurance, 
initiative, self-sacrifice — the quality, in short, which de- 
spises risk and sinks self in the greatness of the object to 
be gained ? He was not sure, but if it was there, and lack- 
ing in strength, he was prepared to stimulate it. 

How? Two suggestions rose ready to his mind. As 
he had ridden past the tower of Stephani Petri his quick 
eye, alert for the moods of the people that he might turn 
them to advantage, had caught sight of Alessandro and 
Bianca on the balcony of Susanna Ligorio, the perfumer. 
The reputation of the place was notorious and, skilfully 
used, might turn a proud woman’s no, into an abashed 
yes. Then there was always Malazzorbo. Knowing women 
as women had taught him to know them, he asked him- 
self, What would she not do, having known Rome, rather 
than return to the grey life of Malazzorbo? But these, 
being in a nature of a threat, he would not hint unless 
driven; no sensible man threatens if he can persuade or 
cajole. 

There was no time to waste, Montelengo had said; and 
Pandone wasted no time when Bianca was ushered into 


ROME OR MALAZZORBO 


109 


his private apartments on the morning following the pro- 
cession. And yet, for the moment, he was greatly pre- 
occupied, scarcely sparing a moment to glance up as she 
entered and motion her to a stool placed to one side and a 
little in front of him, before plunging afresh into the study 
of a parchment, one of the many littering the table before 
him. His forehead was lined with care, and from time 
to time he passed a hand down his long beard in the un- 
consciousness of his anxious absorption. 

In such an attitude he looked his best, handsome, capa- 
ble, dignified, detached from the world, the figure of a 
great prelate who was possibly also a great man; an im- 
pressive figure, too, and Bianca felt the influence. Sud- 
denly he sighed deeply, laid the parchment down, looked at 
it fixedly for a moment, then brushed it aside with re- 
strained impatience and turned to Bianca. 

“Surely the care of the Church is burden enough, and 
yet they thrust the weight of the world also on our shoul- 
ders. But the world itself is the care of the Church, so why 
complain ! Only the burden grows heavy at times, and any 
help that can lighten it, furthering these great interests of 
righteousness, is the gift of God.” It has been said already 
that Pandone had that gift of the orator which endows 
words with the power of profundity; now they were so 
endowed. “But such things cannot interest you — Rome 
with its life and gaiety, will be more to your taste. What 
do you think of Rome, my child?” 

“You might as well ask me what do I think of the stars,” 
answered Bianca, and meant what she said. 

“A good answer.” Pandone nodded comprehension and 
approval. “A very good answer, for Rome, truly, is the 
sky of the world. You saw the procession?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Father?” repeated the Cardinal, and his tone was 
mild with regret rather than tinged with censure. Very 


110 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


astutely, he added no more. None knew better than he 
that the neglect of twenty-four years is not palliated by a 
few smooth words. For that he trusted Emilia; love for 
the child might soften the natural resentment against the 
father. For the moment the gentle reproach was suffi- 
cient. “You saw His Holiness?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“A sun among stars, the glorious light of the Church’s 
firmament.” He sighed again and sat back in his chair, 
the wrinkles of anxious thought once more lining his fore- 
head and running into a network of fine cobwebbing about 
the temples. 

As to Bianca, if the neglect of twenty-four years was not 
palliated, the resentment was less actively present to her 
mind. And not just for Emilia’s sake. Without question 
the dignity of the prelate and the apparent strength of the 
man impressed her, nor could her prejudice deny the great- 
ness and splendour of the position he had climbed to un- 
aided. The absorbing claims of his office might even 
plead some excuse. But not for a moment did she forget 
that she was there to learn why he had sent for her from 
Malazzorbo, therefore she continued to answer him guard- 
edly. 

“A sun among stars,” repeated Pandone, his chin on 
his breast, his eyes fixed on the litter of parchments; it 
was as if his mind was far away, lost in the immensity 
of the Church’s firmament. Then he roused himself, 
smiting the flat of the table with his palm in a gesture 
almost of despair. “And yet there are clouds, clouds, 
clouds. Aye, worse than clouds, the threat of an eclipse.” 
Round he swung to Bianca, his head raised, a fire in his 
eyes. “The threat of an eclipse,” he said again, “and that 
is why you are in Rome.” 

“Why — uncle?” The word came out almost against 
her will, startled from her, as it were. But Pandone 


ROME OR MALAZZORBO 111 

noted the change and felt that already a point was gained. 
“Why, what can I do?” 

“Great things! Glorious things! A work for the 
Church, a work that calls for a man’s courage, a wo- 
man’s — ■” wile, he would have said, but the word sounded of 
doubtful meaning, and hastily he substituted “resource, a 
woman’s devotion, a woman’s clear insight to divide the 
true from the false. Surely, I said, as I thought upon the 
need for such qualities, I shall find all these in the blood of 
the Caldoreschi.” 

“Yes, Father?” she said, and both by the tone and the 
return to formality Pandone knew he had lost his gain. 
The appeal to the Caldoreschi had been a mistake; it did 
not ring true and it revived the memory of her grudge. 
Very wisely he abandoned sentiment and answered the in- 
ferred question. 

“Briefly, it is this, and we have spoken of it once already. 
Seven years ago, at his coronation, the Emperor vowed he 
would head a Crusade to wrest the Holy Sepulchre from 
the Turk, a project dear to the heart of the Holy Father 
whom God in His Providence hath taken to Himself. That 
oath Frederick took at the hands of Cardinal Ugolino 
Conti, now% through the grace and love of God to His 
Church, the Church’s head. Twice, for reasons which sat- 
isfied the indulgent heart of our late Holy Father, the de- 
parture for Palestine was put off, but always with renewals 
of the oath. You follow me, my child ?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Naturally you do; it is very simple. To go on. Two 
years ago, when the Emperor — always our good friend, 
you understand, always our good friend — renewed his oath 
to Cardinal Ugolino he fixed the August of this year for 
the assured sailing of the fleet. Nought but the grip of 
death, he swore, should hold him back from the Crusade. 
That vow the Church believed and accepted, but now — > 


112 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


listen, my child — now we are not so sure. Honorins is 
dead; may the Emperor not say in his heart: Death dis- 
solves all bonds, forgetting that his vow is to God and 
the Church, who abide eternal, and not to the head who 
passes? We fear — we greatly fear. Eor if the Emperor 
may absolve himself at will there is an end to the sanctity 
of the altar, the Church is set at nought, her authority 
and sacred power are derided, and the Holy Father him- 
self flouted with contempt before the face of the whole 
world.” 

“Yes, Father,” said Bianca again as the Cardinal paused. 
The words were the same, but by her heightened colour 
and quickening interest Pandone judged that he had 
moved her. 

“Would the Emperor mock God?” he went on, his son- 
orous voice deepening to an indignant solemnity. “Thrice 
he has sworn, twice he has been excused; this time there 
can be no excusal. Will he absolve himself and mock God? 
There are preparations in Palermo, yes — but what is in his 
heart? To play with the Church, to make a jest of his 
oath, or to obey ? For the honour of the Church, and that 
she be not dragged in the mud of the world’s contempt, 
we must know the truth. Will the Crusade sail at the 
time appointed? Are the preparations at Palermo the 
truth or a lie? We must know, we must — must — must. 
For the honour of her altars the Church dare not be blindly 
tolerant, to find her tolerance a jest and byword. And yet, 
if the Emperor is sincere, if he venerates his oath as a 
Christian man and faithful son of the Church, God forbid 
that a breath of censure should blow upon him. But who 
can know the thoughts of a man but the man himself — or 
the woman he opens his heart to?” Again he paused, 
drawing a deep breath, and slowly added: “That is why 
you are in Rome.” 

Uncertain of his meaning, the girl made no immediate 


ROME OR MALAZZORBO 


113 


reply. Up to a point she had understood him clearly 
enough. Amongst other things, and perhaps more clearly 
than he intended, she understood that the Church feared 
rather than loved this good friend who was to fight her 
battles in the East. That much she had gathered from 
his shift of tone rather than from the words themselves. 
Biut when it came to her own usefulness the one clear hint 
at the last was so incredible, almost so monstrous, that 
with a “Yes, Father,” she fell hack on passivity. The 
attitude irritated Pandone, and he launched one of his 
threats. 

“It is either that or Malazzorho — Rome or Malazzorbo; 
you understand?” 

“That?” she repeated. “What is that? No, I do not 
understand.” 

“Have I not just explained?” Leaning forward the 
Cardinal pushed the parchment this way and that impa- 
tiently. There are times when the nakedness of stark lan- 
guage is rather appalling. “We must know the Emperor’s 
intentions — not just that there are preparations, not just 
that there are so many men gathering at Palermo, so many 
ships, such and such stores. All these the first bare-footed 
Franciscan can tell us in full detail. But will the ships 
sail? Are these preparations a blind? What is the Em- 
peror’s true purpose? Is he loyal to his oath, or playing 
with the Church ? These we must know, and only a woman 
can make certain.” 

“Why, Father?” 

“Why?” Here was the need for that stark language 
the Cardinal’s soul abhorred. The girl had the looks; 
more than ever, as she sat five feet away looking him 
straight in the face with these warm-brown eyes of hers, 
and the flush of excitement on her cheeks, he admitted 
Rivara was right. Yes, she had the looks, but if she had 
the sense would there be the need for this distressing 


114 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


plainness of speech ? “How should I know ? I am a child 
in such matters. But they say that at times Frederick is 
more influenced by women than by men.” 

“As Cardinal Montelengo is influenced ?” she asked 
calmly, though her blood was hot and her pulses racing 
as the incredible became credible. “Cardinal Montelengo, 
with his cageful ” 

“The venom of scandal,” burst out Pandone. “It spat- 
ters both the Church and State. None can hope to escape 
its fouling. Two days ago we spoke of this, and I bade 
you think of it no more.” 

“Then it is all lies and scandal ?” she persisted. 

“'Lies and half lies,” he answered testily. “The Em- 
peror is of the south — and Southerners — well, Southerners 
are warmer-blooded than men of the north. A woman’s 
beauty moves them more easily, that is all.” 

“All?” she questioned, and sat silent. But Pandone 
ignored the question. 

“Think of the honour — to lighten the heavy burden 
thrust upon our shoulders, to disperse the clouds obscur- 
ing the sun, to win the gratitude ” 

“Why not Emilia ?” she interrupted. 

Pandone started violently and the blood rushed to his 
face in passion. “Emilia?” he cried harshly, but instantly 
controlled himself. “No. Emilia is but a child. Such 
service demands a woman; Emilia cannot go.” 

“Then there is danger?” 

“Not danger, but there is a risk,” he answered reluct- 
antly. 

“From the southern blood and the half-truth that is in 
the half-lie?” 

“Are you afraid?” 

“No.” The word was as curtly spoken as his curt ques- 
tion. “But why should I go at all? Why do you move 
in the matter, you who are not the head of the Church ?” 


ROME OR MALAZZORBO 


115 


Pandone’s impulse, partly because it came natural to 
him, but also partly because he had almost persuaded him- 
self of its truth, was to revert to sentiment and his duty 
to the Church, but Bianca’s face, less lovely than it had 
been because of its stern hint of indignant aversion, warned 
him that such a plea was foredoomed to failure. Not for a 
moment would she have believed it. Like a wise man he 
told the truth, and if he told it in the way best suited to 
further his ends, who shall blame him? Even a Cardinal 
is human. 

“You were at the procession yesterday?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“You saw His Holiness?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Then you saw the greatest thing in the world. Princes 
are his servants, kings his vassals, from him the Emperor 
himself takes his crown ; where is there another such great- 
ness? And yet, in the very hour when he , takes his seat, 
throned in Saint Peter’s as head of the Church with the 
Keys of Life in his hand, they burn a wisp of tow before 
him and say: ‘Holy Father, so passes the glory of the 
world !’ And the wisp flares up, smokes in a moment, then 
is gone in a breath.” 

He paused. This was a new Pandone. He had ceased 
to pose and was a man, a man with something of greatness 
in him. The fire in his eyes, the widening of the nostrils, 
the sincerity in the full voice, vouched for it. Against her 
will the recognition moved Bianca. She felt that what he 
had in his mind was the truth; was there not, then, per- 
haps truth in all that had gone before? But she held to 
her form of words. 

“Yes, Father.” 

“A figure, you will say, an allegory. Yes, but for Gre- 
gory something more than a figure ; it is almost a prophecy, 
for he is more than eighty years old. Three score years and 


116 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


ten, by reason of strength four score years, but we soon 
fly away. The man passes, but the greatness remains. 
And who shall succeed him? Already he leans upon me, 
already, through him, the eyes of the Church turn to me. 
If one of my name won the Church’s gratitude, resolving 
the Church’s doubts, then — ” again he paused, the briefest 
of pauses, and his voice, soft with a suggestion of pleading, 
thrilled her as many a time from the pulpit of some great 
church, it had thrilled the thousands who hung upon his 
words as on music. “Do you understand, my child? Your 
father’s name writ in the long line of glorious greatness-^ 
Peter, Gregory, Leo, Hildebrand, Innocent, Pandone. God 
spare the Holy Father, God grant the Church his learning, 
his piety, his ripe wisdom for many years. But the world’s 
eyes turn to the future; it is a law in our nature. And 
the burden is heavy, already the shoulders are bent under 
the weight of years. This very uncertainty as to the Em- 
peror’s purpose frets the spirit. Daughter, it is for you to 
decide.” Very wisely he did not add : It is this or Malaz- 
zorbo. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Is Love Nonsense? 

But there was no need. Without the telling Bianca knew 
it was this or Malazzorbo, and the knowledge had its in- 
fluence. Ignorance has this to its credit — it is often a 
great breeder of contentment. Life in Malazzorbo, bright- 
ened by her mother’s love and the fierce, dog-like devotion 
of Tita and Griuseppi Sirani, had been sufficient. Even 
when the love was lost, swept away by the River of Time, 
as all human love must be, she had been satisfied not to 
look beyond her rut. But in all nature, human as well as 
that of the fields and woods, there are dormant buds, as- 
pirations after fruition, unsuspected until the unusual or 
the violent forces them into active being. It may be a 
hacking at the roots of life, it may be the cutting down of 
the flowery promise of life, it may be some great stimulus. 
So was it with Bianca. A new growth possessed her, mind 
and spirit, and Malazzorbo could never again be as it had 
been. Yet, if she had been “afraid,” as Pandone put it, 
she would have gone back to Malazzorbo without giving 
Capua or Rome a second thought. 

But she was not afraid. That was the second influence 
at work in her mind. Pandone’s obscure hint of risks that 
were not a danger were clear to her in spite of their remote 
allusion. To that the four-year-old tragedy of Malazzorbo 
helped her, as did the blind jests in the atrium and Pan- 
done’s slip two days earlier; a latter-day Herod, he had 
said, and then tried hastily to soften the description. But 
117 


118 


GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


she was not afraid ; strong in her knowledge of herself she 
saw no cause for fear. 

And beyond these there was a third influence. It was 
not just that Pandone played upon her responsive nature 
as a musician upon an instrument, though in a sense that 
was true, but she remembered her mother’s debt of love 
for that long-dead father who, to her, was little more than 
a tradition. Had he lived would he not have gloried in this 
honour to his name, to see it, as the Cardinal had said, 
writ in the long line of glorious greatness, blazoned to- 
gether with Leo, Gregory and Hildebrand on the Church’s 
roll of honour ? Surely he would, and surely she who, with- 
out repentance, had given up everything for his sake would 
have glorified with him. 

As to this task which Pandone sought to thrust upon 
her, she saw it in two ways — a work for the Church, per- 
haps; for himself, for his own personal advantage, cer- 
tainly. Twice the Emperor had taken the oath at the 
hands of the newly-elected Pope. Without doubt it would 
weaken Gregory’s personal prestige, and degrade his 
office, if Frederick calmly set his vow aside. Without 
doubt, too, it was vital that the Holy See should know the 
truth in advance. In so far it was a work for the Church, 
but Bianca was firmly persuaded that had it not been 
even a greater work for himself the Cardinal would have 
left her to the rutted peace of Malazzorbo. 

And his gain was clear. Let him go to Gregory with 
such proof as would set all doubt at rest and the service 
could never be forgotten to him, nor, already a Cardinal- 
Bishop, was there any reward but the one possible. True, 
it was against the laws of the Church to promise in advance 
a vote at any future Conclave, but at the proper time 
the service would be remembered; Pandone’s gain was 
clear. That the fulfilment of her task would set her in 
opposition to Alvano, her newly-found cousin, did not 


“IS LOVE NONSENSE?” 


119 


trouble Bianca. She owed nothing to the Caldoreschi, un- 
less, indeed, she owed a revenge for their contemptuous 
ignoring of her mother. 

“I have decided,” she began. But Pandone interrupted 
her decision. 

“There must be no mistake. Remember, it is not enough 
to go to Capua, not enough to probe and grope; you must 
find. We must know the truth beyond all doubt, we 
must — must.” 

“No matter what the risk? But I am not afraid, and 
I will go on one condition — that the Holy Father ap- 
proves.” 

It was Pandone’s turn to be silent in thought. What, 
he wondered, had prompted that condition? His im- 
pulse was to brush it aside with a strong hand; it was so 
clearly a relief to the Holy Father’s anxious mind that 
necessarily he must approve. But the determination on 
Bianca’s face warned him to caution ; she was her mother’s 
daughter, and the Caldoras were not easily driven. To 
temporise was the obvious expedient. 

“The Holy Father, my child? Can you doubt it?” 

“There is much I can doubt,” answered the girl drily. 
“When the Holy Father tells me he approves I will go.” 

“Tells you? The Holy Father? My child! at such 
a time as this the Holy Father is too much occupied ” 

But she broke in on his protests without ceremony. 
“Vital, you said; the honour of the Church, the sanctity 
of her altars; surely five minutes can be spared for these? 
If not, there can be no need for risks.” 

Again His Eminence sat silent, his hand combing his 
beard with rapid, nervous sweeps. Under the pressure of 
necessity he was shifting his point of view. His idea had 
been to keep his project secret until such time as he had 
secured absolute assurance of the Emperor’s faith or un- 
faith. But was that course essential ? Was Father Pieretti 


120 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


not right when he hinted that Gregory would welcome 
with gratitude any possibility of solving the problem which 
was his greatest anxiety of the moment. And if the pro- 
ject proved barren, if Bianca’s beauty and sense in com- 
bination failed, would he not always have the attempt to 
his credit ? On the whole he inclined to think that, all un- 
wittingly, Bianca had shown him a better way. 

"It will be difficult,” he said slowly, his brows knit, 
his eyes narrowed as if in thought as, almost naturally, 
he fell back into his pose again, "very, very difficult. Every 
hour is packed with the duties of three. But I shall do 
my best. Wait here — in your own apartment, I mean — 
until I return.” His gaze ran over her in keen scrutiny. 
"Yes, as you are will do; no jewelry, no adornment, a 
black lace scarf for your head but not so draped that it 
hides your face. In an hour I should be back. I think 
His Holiness will receive me at once, but I can promise 
nothing — nothing.” 

For that hour of waiting Bianca would have preferred 
to have been left to herself. She was like a ship at sea, 
driven by storm through obscurity to strange waters, and 
had much need to make sure of her position. But Emilia 
would not be denied, and the elder girl’s preparations, sim- 
ple though they were, a discarding of ribbons or brooches, 
a more primly-careful braiding of the hair and the adjust- 
ment of the black lace scarf, one of her mother’s few pos- 
sessions, filled her with curiosity. 

"Are you going out, cousin Bianca?” 

“Yes, dear, with your uncle.” 

"Why don’t you say our uncle? No! don’t tell me, 
for it hurts me that you should think of him like that. 
Not that I blame you. I would have died in that dull 
Malazzorbo, or turned into a turnip and then a cow would 
have eaten me. Where are you going, cousin ?” 

"To see the Holy Father.” 


“IS LOVE NONSENSE?” 


121 


For a moment Emilia sat open-mouthed, all her light 
gaiety of idle jest gone from her, then, to Bianca’s intense 
astonishment, she burst into tears. 

“I know why you are going. We are too foolish and 
empty-headed to please you. I can’t help it, I’m just 
what I was born and I always will be. But you want to 
be a woman Saint Francis, and go about in bare feet and 
a rope, like the monks who eat so much at dinner.” She 
paused, her under lip pushed out in decision. “If you do 
I will join you and be a nun, too. At least” — again she 
paused and a gleam of sunshine showed behind the rain, 
“you would allow a poor sister to marry, would you not, 
cousin Bianca, if — if — I don’t quite know if what !” 

What could Bianca do but laugh. “Where do you learn 
such nonsense?” 

“Is love nonsense, cousin Bianca?” 

“I did not mean that, but I know nothing at all about 
it.” 

“No; I was sure Malazzorbo was dull. But you will 
know soon. Wait until you have been in Borne a month — 
no, a month is too long, a week should be enough. But I 
forgot, you are going to see the Holy Father, and already 
you have made your hair like a nun’s. Cousin Bianca, 
you must choose a white habit; you will look lovely in 
white.” 

“But that is nonsense. I have no such thought.” 

“Then why are you going ?” 

“Because I have need of advice,” answered Bianca slow- 
ly. It was the truth, but not the whole truth. 

“Then I should ask uncle — or Signor Bivara; Signor 
Bivara is very wise,” said Emilia sedately, but with a 
sudden little flush of colour. “The Pope? A bloodless, 
old, dry stick ! I think he was born a priest and I’m sure 
he never was young.” 

“Then you know him?” 


123 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


The flush that had risen to Emilia’s cheeks when she 
referred to Rivara deepened, and she looked aside in evi- 
dent embarrassment. 

“Cousin Bianca, I think he did not approve of — of 
’Sandro and me. Of course, though we always say ‘uncle’ 
we understand as everyone understands. Whenever he 
came to the palace, and he did not come often, we never 
appeared. That is not why I called him a withered stick,” 
she went on hastily, her face now flaming. /‘But all 
Rome knows he is a priest first and a priest last and noth- 
ing but a priest. And men who are nothing but priests 
—well, I don’t think their advice can be very wise. They 
only know souls and not the flesh and blood, and where 
would the soul be if flesh and blood did not go with it? 
Not on earth, I think.” 

It was then that the Cardinal knocked at the door, and, 
being bidden, entered. He checked his evident haste at 
sight of Emilia perched on the edge of Bianca’s bed, one 
foot tucked under her, the other just visible below the 
hem of her long white skirt as she swung a silk slipper on 
the point of her toes. But ignoring her he at once ad- 
dressed Bianca. 

“Are you ready ?” Then her changed appearance struck 
him and he turned her to the light. “Chut ! chut ! What 
have you done to yourself? Loosen your hair; now 
bring it more forward — more still; yes, that is better. 
Why spoil what God gave you ? Your scarf — not so much 
over your face and looser — looser. TTm! that will do.” 

“Cousin Bianca,” said Emilia, “I said you were not 
meant for a nun. Shall you be back for dinner, uncle, or 
may I tell ’Sandro he will lose nothing if he dines with one 
of his friends ? Poor ’Sandro ! Why is he not eight years 
older ?” 

“Eh ? ’Sandro ?” The Cardinal came out of his critical 
study of Bianca with a start. “I am very angry with 


“IS LOVE NONSENSE?” 


123 


’Sandro, brawling in the very line of the procession. He 
will make our name hated in Rome.” 

“But indeed, uncle, it was they who brawled with him. 
Poor ’Sandro ! Had it not been for Signor Alvano — 
Cousin Bianca, that is the second time Signor Alvano has 
played paladin. I wonder if he thinks you were meant for 
a nun? If he were only a prince or a grand duke ” 

“We shall not be long away,” said Pandone, breaking 
in on the characteristic inconsequent chatter that was not 
all inconsequent. “Come, my child, we must not keep the 
Holy Father waiting ” 


CHAPTER XIY 


Gregory the Nixth 

The guard, with the Cardinal’s litter, was in attendance 
at the door. Neither uncle nor niece spoke. By their 
route, which Bianca recognized, the girl knew that Gregory 
had returned to the Vatican. Progress was rapid. With 
the procession the holidays had ended until the dead Pope’s 
funeral, which, following custom, would be on the ninth 
day, and the city had resumed its normal routine. Shops 
were open, hawkers crying their wares, craftsmen — smiths, 
potters, weavers, armourers and the like — busy before their 
doors. The streets were full of life and the glitter of 
wealth. Litters, gay, gorgeous, or simply utilitarian, met 
them every few yards ; the air was rhythmic with the tramp 
of guards, as nobles or the greater churchmen went about 
their business, risking no hazard from private foes ; up and 
down the main thoroughfares and narrow lanes the steady 
flow of common folk moved this way and that, intent upon 
the day’s work. 

Though the stir was less in volume it was more truly 
the life of a great city, and its varied human interests 
appealed more strongly to Bianca than the rush and tur- 
moil of the past feverish days. Rome or Malazzorbo ? In- 
voluntarily she glanced at Pandone. But the Cardinal, his 
hands in his lap, was staring into vacancy : his long inter- 
view with Gregory had left him uncertain of the outcome. 
It was not even clear that his zeal had been understood, 
or, if understood, appreciated rightly. 

Her thoughts turned forward. All unconsciously Emilia 
124 


125 


GKEGOBY THE NINTH 

had confirmed her in the wisdom of this appeal to the 
Pope. Quite clearly, Gregory knew, and his austerity dis- 
approved, of Pandone’s so-called niece and nephew. What 
other attitude was possible in one who was a priest first 
and last, and always a priest? That being so, and know- 
ing the' risks His Eminence had vaguely but not doubt- 
fully hinted, he would surely advise her aright. The de- 
duction seemed reasonable. But Bianca forgot that men 
of one idea are apt to see nothing beyond that idea: at 
times, too, they lose sight of the means in their eagerness 
to secure the coveted end. 

At the foot of the flight of steps leading up to the atrium 
of old St. Peter’s they quitted the litter, and mounting, 
crossed the open space on foot, inclining always a little 
to the right. Though there was no such crowd as on the 
declaration of the Conclave, the great square was pulsing 
with animation and colour. The events of the past few 
days had drawn to Pome multitudes of ecclesiastics of all 
grades, and it was natural that this outer court, holy with 
the sacred memories of a thousand years, should be their 
rallying-point. The scarlet, purple, and white of the 
lords of the Church mingled with the sober browns and 
black of the monks or humbler clergy: nor, purple being 
the Papal mourning, did sorrow for the departed Vicar of 
Christ darken the scene; rather, it added to the volume 
and play of colour. Women were numerous, chiefly con - 
tadine , bare-legged, bare-footed, in their short black skirts, 
gay bodices and striped head-gear. 

Now progress slackened. Pandone’s personality was so 
well known that at almost every step he had to pause to 
exchange greetings, acknowledge salutations, or bestow his 
benediction : many of the peasant women waiting on their 
knees until he had passed. Twice he only succeeded in 
breaking away from importunity by protesting, “Not now, 
my friend, not now: I have an audience with the Holy 


126 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Father and cannot delay.” He never once glanced at 
Bianca, nor in his protest did he raise his voice, but he was 
not sorry that she saw and heard. It must, he shrewdly 
surmised, all have its influence. 

And without doubt he was right. Reverence in others 
begets reverence in ourselves, worship begets worship, as 
like begets dike. In that brief passage across the atrium 
His Eminence took on a greatness Bianca had never before 
accorded him in her thoughts. And if this reverence, this 
respect and worship — in the old sense of the word — were 
his due, what was due to him, who, by the power of the 
Spirit of God, held the keys ? The awe of the thought was 
appalling, and as she climbed the few stairs from the court- 
yard to the portico of the great church, her knees trembled 
under her so violently that, at the top, as they turned to the 
right under the vaulted roof, she clung to Pandone for 
support. The Cardinal understood the message of the 
shaking hands. 

“Courage, my child. To the willing and obedient he 

is a loving father, but to the froward •” a gesture ended 

the sentence. 

In those days there was no Scala Regia, and the public 
entrance to the Vatican Palace was through a door which 
opened upon the northern end of the portico. Here stood 
a single sentinel, so lightly armed that one who did not 
know that the entire lower story was a barrack would have 
said, See how the Holy Father trusts his people and is 
beloved by them! But for the moment the true guard 
was a group of Gregory’s household, who kept the door 
with scrupulous watchfulness, permitting none to enter 
who was unknown, or whose business in the palace was 
doubtful. 

Through these Pandone and Bianca passed without ques- 
tion, the former declining the offer of a lackey to announce, 
his coming. 


GREGORY THE NINTH 


127 


“Unnecessary, my friends, quite unnecessary : His Holi- 
ness is expecting me at this moment.” He spoke in a low 
whisper, as if unwilling to break the silence. 

And the silence was profound, so profound that it bred 
in Bianca afresh the sense of awe. In the courtyard the 
rasping tramp of feet, the rough hum of voices, the echoes 
from the Borgo and the greater city beyond the Tiber, had 
been harsh and insistent with the clamour of common life : 
here many were coming and going, but they passed as 
shadows, treading softly, it seemed to the girl, as Moses of 
old must have trodden, unshod, on holy ground. 

The air of the broad staircase was cool and grey, and 
with every step she mounted, following Pandone, Bianca’s 
heart beat more quickly, her skin creeping upon her as it 
had crept three days before in the atrium. Holy ground ! 
Surely there was a parallel? The Vicar of Christ upon 
earth was in this place, and through him, as in the bush 
that burned, yet was not consumed, the quenchless light of 
the Church blazed to the world. Through the booming of 
the blood in her ears came the voice of the lean-faced, 
ascetic priest, “The greatest thing in the world — the great- 
est — the greatest.” As if swept by a chill she drew in her 
breath shudderingly through closed teeth. 

Of the many coming and going most saluted the Cardi- 
nal, but none spoke, nor did he pause in his slow, noiseless 
ascent. At the stairhead Bianca could not have told 
whether he turned to right or left, she only knew he went 
forward, and that she followed, her feet like lead under 
her, and her knees trembling. In the broad, dim corridor 
there were many quiet shadows, mostly motionless in 
patience, hoping for an audience or waiting instructions for 
the many ceremonies, funeral pomps and coronation glories 
incidental to the change in the Papacy. Through these His 
Eminence, as before, passed unchallenged, pausing only at 
an open door near the end of the passage. And the pause 


128 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


was only momentary, the instant he was recognized the 
young noble on guard stood aside with a deep reverence. 
Half turning, Pandone took Bianca by the arm and led her 
into the room. 

Here perhaps a score were assembled, Princes of the 
Church, prelates, nobles, and officials of the Papal court. 
If, split up into groups, they spoke much and with emphatic 
gestures, it was in such low whispers that the silence which 
followed Pandone’s entrance scarcely deepened the quiet. 
But it was on Bianca that all eyes were turned : at such a 
moment cardinals were more common than women in the 
ante-room of His Holiness. 

Roused partly by this scrutiny, but also partly by the 
consciousness that there was a crisis to be met, the girl 
forced a self-control upon her shaken nerves and looked 
round her. Tapestries representing scenes in the lives of 
the apostles covered the walls, but except for two padded 
benches placed under the high-pitched window the room 
was entirely devoid of furniture: three silver lamps hung 
by chains from the ceiling of carved cedar-wood. Besides 
the open door at her back a second, masked by curtains, 
pierced the wall at the side. 

Pandone, too, glanced round, alert and observant. He 
knew every man present, knew him for a friend or an 
enemy : in such a sharp conflict of interests indifference or 
neutrality was scarcely possible. From the group before 
the curtains, the largest group in the room, a bowed, 
meagre figure came quickly forward to greet Pandone with 
both hands outstretched: Bianca recognized him as that 
Cardinal Otho who had announced the election to the 
crowd in the atrium three days before. 

“Welcome, dear Father, welcome,” he whispered, 
taking Pandone by the elbows and looking up into his face 
with something both of deference and admiration. “Cas- 
tiglione is within, but if you wish I shall send word that 


GREGORY THE NINTH 129 

you are here ; without doubt His Holiness will dismiss him 
and spare your time.” 

“Thank you, dear Father,” answered Pandone, a dry 
significance in his voice, “but, as at other times, I can 
wait.” 

A third member of the Curia joined them, Yalsoldo, 
Cardinal-deacon of San Casciano. Honorius had advanced 
him to the purple on Pandone’s recommendation and in 
return the Cardinal of San Marco del Monte had received 
his steady support in the Conclave until Montelengo’s 
stroke of statecraft elected Gregory. 

“Twice within the last twenty minutes His Holiness has 
asked for you,” he said to Pandone. 

“No, no : once only,” protested Otho, “and then he said 
Honorius was better served.” 

“The impatience of his great — office,” answered Pandone 
still drily. “But he will not have to wait longer. See, 
dear Father, the door is opening.” 

Noiselessly, on its padded rings, the curtains slipped 
aside, and Castiglione, whom the mob had so heartily 
hissed at the tower of Stephani Petri, entered from the 
inner room. Betwixt the two doors he paused a moment 
with a sweeping gesture of an arm that embraced all pres- 
ent. 

“Ah! signors and Fathers, what a blessed choice — a 
Vicar of Christ indeed ! Now may the foes of the Church 
look to themselves !” 

“Um,” whispered Valsoldo, as Otho hurried through the 
still open door to the inner room, “at the least it is an abbey 
for a son, perhaps a bishopric. But then, his brother’s sup- 
port in the Conclave deserves reward : he is an obstacle in 
the path, dear friend.” But Pandone answered him aloud, 
his great voice clearly to be heard even in the corridor. 

“Yes, a great soul for a great need, though God grant 
the Emperor holds to his oath.” 


330 


GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


It was then Otho returned: he had been Camerlengo 
under Honorius, and re-appointed by Gregory. “His Holi- 
ness will receive you at once, dear Father.” 

“Alone — unless there are orders to the contrary.” 

“There are no special orders.” 

“Then alone, it is the service of the Church : come, my 
child,” and taking Bianca by the arm he led her towards 
the door. There he looked back an instant, and his eyes 
met those of Montelengo. It was as if he said, “You see, 
there is no delay,” then he crossed the threshold, Bianca 
following, and the door closed softly. 

With a deep genuflexion, his head bowed, his hands 
crossed upon his breast, Pandone stood aside. Unin- 
structed, Bianca, too, waited in silence. Her mind was a 
battle-ground of memories, of flying phrases caught and 
never forgotten — the Vicar of Christ — a grey, old wolf — a 
father indeed. What she saw, before she bent her head, 
was a meagre figure all in white, seated on a high-backed 
chair with carved arms a few feet from the opposite wall : 
even the flowing robe, caught in loosely at the waist and 
descending in sweeping curves from chin to ankle, could 
not disguise the meagreness. 

His hands, thin, white and long-fingered, rested in his 
lap: a white skull-cap covered his head, from under the 
close-fitting edge locks of grey hair strayed almost to the 
shoulders. His only ornaments, if ornaments they could be 
called, were his Fisherman’s ring and an ivory crucifix, 
hung by a gold chain upon his breast, nor were they worn 
as ornaments, they were the insignia and significance of 
his great office. His face — Bianca was never quite certain 
of the face. Womanlike, her mind retained more clearly 
the generalities of his dress, his attitude of weariness as he 
leaned back in the angle of the great chair, his marvellous, 
unforced assertion of an incomparable dignity, rather than 
any assured knowledge of his face. But, the light being 


GREGORY THE NINTH 


131 


from the side, she had an impression of a high, wide fore- 
head, a full eye, a prominent, arched nose, broad in the 
nostril, a sunken cheek, a thin-lipped mouth, and large, 
strong chin, outlined against the brightness as a carving 
in a cameo. 

“The dove of peace,” said a thin, clear voice. The 
harsh, stern, dominant note of warning and menace so un- 
mistakable at Stephani Petri had gone out of it, but Bianca 
knew it at once. “Obedience brings peace,” it had said, 
with a subtle, suggested threat for all who rashly disobeyed. 
“Come nearer, daughter — here, by my foot-stool.” He 
motioned with his hand and, hardly conscious that she 
had moved, Bianca found herself kneeling on a cushion at 
his feet, but a little to one side so that the light shone full 
upon her. “The blessing of peace upon those who bring 
peace, and that is what you would do, is it not?” 

“Yes, Holy Father.” 

“In the temple of the Living God there are all manner 
of builders,” went on the thin, clear voice. “Some lay its 
stones in order, some rear up the pillars of it, some carve its 
beauty, some work unseen. Men, their fellows, know 
them not, the unseen workers, and the praise of men passes 
them by; but the temple is the Lord’s temple and the 
Dweller within it knows.” His eyes searched her face keenly 
while he spoke, clear, luminous eyes, bright with the power 
of a strong intellect unimpaired by his more than eighty 
years. “Take courage, daughter, and the Dweller in the 
temple Himself keep thee in safety. His Eminence has in- 
formed us of your purpose: may it bring peace to the 
troubled mind of the Church. For ourselves, we do not 
doubt the Emperor’s good faith — God forbid that we 
should. But assurance there must be lest the Church seem 
a scorn to the world, and contempt fall upon the chosen of 

the Spirit, Frederick ” A sudden spasm shook him a t 

the name, his eyes blazed with the light of a fierce passion, 


132 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


and a flush chased away the pallor of the sunken cheeks. 
But instantly he calmed. “Frederick is our good son. 
But at times sons forget their fathers and we must know 
the truth. The work of the Church is the work of God, 
her peace is Christ’s peace; daughter, is it your will to do 
this work that peace may come?” 

“Yes, Holy Father.” It had been her intention to lay 
her position particularly and clearly before Gregory, claim- 
ing advice and counsel in her difficulty. But the tremend- 
ous assumptions had filled her anew with a sense of awe, 
forcing upon her a recognition of her own insignificance, 
so that even to repeat the three words taxed all her powers. 

“Good.” He glanced up at Pan done, standing motion- 
less near the door. “His Eminence, our dear brother 
beloved, will make your plan smooth for you. And now, 
daughter, the God of all power and peace lead you to the 
truth and have you in His keeping.” Leaning forward, 
he stretched out his hand, and Bianca, stooping, kissed the 
Fisherman’s ring upon it. On her bent head the other hand 
rested an instant in a light touch scarcely to be felt. “God 
the Father, God the Son, God the Spirit, bless you, my 
child,” he said solemnly. 

Rising to her feet Bianca curtseyed to the floor, and 
stepping backward felt the Cardinal take her by the arm. 
Next instant he led her through the door directly into the 
passage, and she heard the clang of a hand-bell as Gregory 
summoned his Camerlengo. She had had her answer. 


CHAPTER XV 


His Eminence Condescends a Second Time 

Thereafter events moved rapidly with Bianca. An 
embassy, part lay, part clerical, was being despatched to 
Capua to announce formally to the Emperor Gregory’s 
accession to the pontificate, and Pandone decided that 
Bianca should travel with it under the care of Ursula di 
Crescenzo, the wife of its lay head. Such an arrangement 
secured two benefits, if not three — an adequate guard 
would be provided through an unsettled tract of country, 
the girl’s entrance to Capua would be unobtrusive, nor 
would explanetions of her presence be necessary; that she 
travelled under the care, or in the suite of the wife of the 
lay head to the embassy, answered all questions, and as- 
sured her position at the Court of the Emperor. 

But in Rome there were questions to answer and Emilia 
was inconsolable. Why should cousin Bianca go at all? 
Emilia had a dozen dreams in her head for this newly- 
discovered cousin, and here was a swift awakening — why 
should Bianca go at all? Pandone’s answer was plausible 
if not convincing ; Bianca had other cousins, also strangers 
to her; it was right she should make up her mind which 
she preferred. 

“But they have not asked her to go to them,” cried 
Emilia, half in tears. 

“My child,” answered the Cardinal with grieved dignity, 
“do not shame me by reminding me of my own neglect,” 
whereat Emilia, in her whirlwind fashion, had flown into* 
his arms with loud protestations of repentance; she had, 
never thought to hint such a reproach. 

133 


134 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

But though Emilia remained unreconciled a need arose 
which tempered her regret, it even brought some warmth 
of comfort. While three new gowns might suffice for the 
first few days in Rome they were ridiculously inadequate 
for the niece of the Cardinal of San Marco del Monte at 
the most polished court in Europe, that is to say, in the 
world, and with only five days for preparation Emilia w r as 
first of all in despair and then plunged to the crown of 
her sleek, black head in an ocean of tumultuous excite- 
ment. 

Three gowns? There must be three times three; had 
time allowed Emilia would have insisted on thirty-three, 
so determined was she that Caldora should not think shame 
of Pandone. Nor were gowns all; there must be laces, 
ribbons, kerchiefs, gloves, gauntlets, slippers, shoes, head- 
gear — the list is almost endless and defies enumeration. 
Add yet further the hundred and one accessories to a cun- 
ning toilet, the perfumes, the powders, the unguents, the 
pomanders unknown in Malazzorbo but indispensable to 
any woman of fashion in Rome or Capua, and it is no 
wonder that Emilia’s brain was in a whirl. Nor, this time, 
did Bianca object. To play her part she must dress her 
part, and few women have entire faith in the unaided arts 
of the beggar-maid. 

After much consideration the Cardinal decided to hon- 
our the Albergo del Sole with a second visit. Frankness 
seemed to him wisdom. That Alvano should learn unex- 
pectedly of his cousin’s presence in Capua might rouse 
suspicions and prejudice Bianca in her task. But this time 
he left Father Pieretti behind in the litter and entered the 
inn alone. The apple-cheeked chaplain might be his 
shadow, but not even to his shadow did Pandone confide 
all that was in his mind. 

"Signor Alvano?” he asked, his tone that of one who 
seeks an old and valued friend. 


HIS EMINENCE CONDESCENDS 


135 


“Yes, your Eminence — within. Your Eminence is fortu- 
nate — that is, Signor Alvano is fortunate not to miss youtf 
Eminence ; he is so much abroad.” 

“In the Saint Zosimo Chamber, as before, I suppose?” 

The host smirked, rubbing his hands as he bowed. “No, 
your Holiness, no — the Pandone chamber, by your Emi- 
nence’s grace. Alas, that I shall not live to see it Saint 
Pandone.” 

“Alas, nor I,” answered the Cardinal drily. “Lead the 
way, my friend.” 

At the head of the stairs Alvano was in waiting. Drawn 
to the window by the commotion he had recognised the 
Cardinal’s liveries and put his own construction on the re^’ 
peated visit — with yesterday’s events as a pretext His 
Eminence would again be curious in the Emperor’s affairs.; 
In that, as we know, Alvano was wrong; His Eminence 
had already taken his own way of resolving the doubts 
of the Church, and was busied now about his own affairs.; 
Yet his first words sustained Alvano’s theory. 

“Debt added to debt,” he began, but interrupted him- 
self. “No, no, no,” he protested, as Alvano, with every 
demonstration of respect, stooped to kiss his ring “not as 
between friends. Besides,” he added, with heavy humour, 
“we all know the Emperor, your master, is half a; 
heretic.” 

“A heretic? the Emperor?” began Alvano. But Pan-* 
done waved him down with one hand while he laid the 
other in the crook of the Southerner’s arm. 

“I did but jest. Evil tongues are never silent, but the 
Emperor’s love and devotion are an answer to their venom 
that the Church most gratefully accepts.” He turned to 
the landlord : “My friend, you need come no further, Sig- 
nor Alvano will conduct me to this Pandone chamber of 
yours. I trust, signor, you do not regret your saint?” 

“Not I,” answered Alvano, laughing. “The boot is on 


136 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


the other leg; I have to thank your Eminence for an un- 
speakable change for the better.” 

“Um,” said Pandone, leaning heavily on the arm he 
held, “I never knew the man yet who was worse for the 
Church’s friendship. And this is the Pandone room?” 
He looked about him approvingly as he sank back into a 
padded chair. “Almost like Capua in its luxury, Signor 
Alvano. A pleasant change indeed. Well, I blame no 
man for sleeping softly; it is not the sleeping that counts, 
signor, it is the waking. And that brings me to my debt, 
for Alessandro’s debt is mine and none can say that the 
Pandones are ungrateful. Yesterday, at Stephani Petri — ” 

“Your Eminence, Signor Alessandro would have done 
the like in a like case.” 

“And so you will not be thanked? You gentlemen of 
the South who serve the Emperor have a fine chivalry. 
But the debt remains, and I fear you will think, before I 
have finished, that I take a poor way of paying it. Signor 
Alvano, Alessandro would not have cried, God and the Em- 
peror! right in the heart of this free city of Rome, and 
almost into the ears of both Pope and Senator; was that 
wise ?” 

“Yes, your Eminence, if to live at all is wisdom; we 
had died else, Pandone and Alvano alike. And why not 
call on my master and his master in my need? I know 
no better call.” 

“A good answer,” and Pandone nodded his head as, 
stroking his beard gently, he looked up at Alvano. “A 
good answer between friends, that is, though none to His 
Holiness or Benincasa. And Alessandro was foolish, I do 
not deny it for a moment. But the boy is young ; you can- 
not look for the grey head on green shoulders — you know 
the proverb.” 

“I would look for more wisdom in his father’s son than 
to rouse the frenzy of a Roman mob,” answered Alvano 


HIS EMINENCE CONDESCENDS 137 

drily. “You hinted a warning. Cardinal. I will speak one 
plainly — Let Signor Alessandro beware of Roman mobs; 
they may do him an ill turn yet.” 

Pandone stiffened in his chair. “Were they truly dan- 
gerous ?” 

“Dangerous? My crime, ‘Qod and the Emperor!’ 
checked them, but in the end it was my cousin who saved 
both him and me.” 

Here was the Cardinal’s opportunity, promptly he 
seized it. 

“And to our great sorrow we are losing her for a time. 
She wishes — the natural curiosity of her age, Signor Al- 
vano — to see the land whence her mother sprang. For my- 
self I cannot wonder at it. She goes south to Capua in 
five days.” 

“It is strange, but she said nothing of this yesterday.” 

“Strange? Surely not. With the mob howling in her 
ears she had other things to think of. Had you crossed 
our threshold — but no! you prefer to keep us continually 
in your debt. Signor Alvano, were you but going south I 
would commend my niece to your care in Capua. But 
remember, she seeks nothing of her cousins — no favours, 
no patronage. I doubt if, in her heart, she claims cousin- 
ship, for all her curiosity. She has her pride. Pandone 
does not choose to remember what Caldora has forgotten,” 
which was true enough, since both Pandone and Caldora 
had equally ignored Malazzorbo. 

“No commendation is necessary, your Eminence; she is 
my cousin as well as your niece. When does she leave 
Rome ?” 

“In five days. His Holiness is sending an embassy to 
announce his elevation, and Bianca travels in its train. 
A girl’s whim, but to my mind a doubtful one.” Rising, 
he laid a friendly hand on Alvano’s shoulder. “God and 
the Emperor!” he repeated, and shook his head in play- 


138 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


ful reproval. “Signor Alvano, at times the air of Rome 
is unhealthy even in March. I say no more.” 

Side by side, Pandone’s hand still on the Southerner’s 
shoulder, they descended the stairs talking of the splen- 
dour of the past day’s procession. 

“His Holiness — he is not in his first youth — bore the 
fatigue well, I trust?” asked Alvano. 

“Marvellously well, thank God ! Twice he has received 
me to-day, though thronged with duties.” His Eminence 
turned to the waiting host. “My friend, the Pandone 
room will bring me a dangerous reputation for luxury. 
Signor Alvano, do not forget that it is best for a man to 
endure hardness with the saints,” and smiling, smooth, 
suave, His Eminence went upon his way leaving behind 
him the memory of a gracious and genial condescension. 
None knew better than he that trifling courtesies, like small 
change in coinage, circulate readily among the people, and 
that, in the long run, the people are the masters. 

Once, during these five days, Rivara unburdened his 
perplexed anxiety for Emilia’s cousin. His patron, being 
sure of the secretary’s disapproval, had kept his own coun- 
sel, but remembering the urgent summons from Malaz- 
zorbo Rivara utterly discredited the story of Bianca’s 
curiosity in cousinship. His Eminence was not the man 
to bring his niece to Rome that she might follow her whims 
at his expense, nor had what passed on the night of the 
election been forgotten. On the other hand, the reception 
by Gregory puzzled him, confusing the issue, so that the 
utmost his anxiety ventured was to invite a confidence. 

“Signorina, as between friends — we are friends, are we 
not ? — is this wise ?” 

“Friends certainly.” As Bianca replied something in 
the firm, almost stern, set of her face reminded him of 
their first meeting in the kitchen at Malazzorbo. “As to 
the wisdom — is it only a week ago you told me that in 


HIS EMINENCE CONDESCENDS 139 

Rome I must not say all I thought? Signor Rivara, I 
am not saying all I think, but I will tell you this — I am 
sure 'of myself.” 

“Remember,” he said, “there is always Malazzorbo.” 

“Have no doubt that I remember. I have had too little 
love in my life to forget Tita and Giuseppi, but so long 
as I am sure of myself there is no need for Malazzorbo.” 

But it was an interview with the Countess di Crescenzo 
that brought the imminence of her venture more clearly 
home to Bianca than all Emilia’s robes and milliners. The 
great lady knew nothing of the secret wheels at work. For 
her it was sufficient that His Holiness had expressed to 
her husband — a cousin of that Cardinal John Colonna who 
had secured Gregory’s election — an interest in the girl’s 
desire to see something of her mother’s relatives. That 
she was half a Caldora was in itself a commendation to one 
who never ceased to deplore that, in the democracy of the 
Church, a Pandone should wear the purple. Had any- 
one suggested that the first Bishop of Rome had been a 
fisherman, she would have replied that she had no intention 
of taking either her manners or her customs from the 
Jews. 

“Leave us to ourselves for half an hour, Cardinal,” she 
said in her brisk, autocratic way, having first paid punctil- 
ious respect to His Eminence’s high office. “Women are 
never natural when there are men about. We shall get to 
know each other all the sooner if you are not present.” 
And though she had courtseyed deeply and kissed his ring 
a second time Pandone was glad to go: never yet had he 
been quite sure of himself with the Countess di Crescenzo. 

“Men about?” she repeated when the door was closed. 
“With priests and lackeys I always have a doubt. Yet 
we must have them : we could not live without the one or 
die without the other. Come to the light, child, that I 
may see you. Um, not so much of a child, and nothing at 


140 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


all of a Pandone. But I might have guessed it : Gregory 
is too wise an old fox to send anyone south who would 
disgrace the Church. N^w sit on that stool there and talk 
to me about yourself.” 

But though Bianca obeyed she never forgot Rivara’s 
warning. While she spoke freely of Malazzorbo, of her 
mother, of the dim memories of her long-dead father and 
her mother’s uncomforted sorrow, she said nothing of the 
tragedy of four years past, nor of their poverty, nor the 
Cardinal’s neglect. Nor was her reticence all due to 
Rivara’s warning. Instinctively she felt that what filled 
her with horror would seem but a commonplace to her 
listener. As to her uncle, she resented for her father’s 
sake the calm despisal which swept all the name of Pan- 
done into the one net of contempt simply because they 
were Pandone. That was never the opinion of the gentle 
gentlewoman, her mother. So, for pride’s sake, and her 
dead father’s sake, the Cardinal’s neglect was covered up. 

But the shrewd, keen eyes of the warm-hearted, out- 
spoken autocratic woman of the world saw behind the veil. 

“There is little wonder she should wish to see the Cal- 
doreschi,” she told her husband that night. “She is one 
of them, root and branch. But why should His Eminence 
remember her so suddenly after twenty years, only to rid 
himself of her in a week?” 

Marco di Crescenzo thought for a moment. “There is 
another girl Pandone, I think. Perhaps she is jealous of 
her stranger cousin? Trust a priest’s cat to scratch if 
robbed of her cream.” 

A slander on Emilia, but the explanation sufficed : being 
a slander it was all the more easily believable. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Alvano of the Arno Eord 

It was a great spectacle, the blessing of the embassy in the 
church of Saint John of the Later an on the morning of 
departure. Of the building of Bianca’s day probably 
nothing now remains, but then, as now, it was the Mother 
and Head of all churches, taking precedence, at times, even 
of Saint Peter’s. 

His Holiness, in full pontificals, officiated at the high 
altar, assisted by cardinals and prelates in such a glory of 
crimson, purple and gold that minor dignitaries were like 
silver in the days of Solomon, nothing accounted of. Ex- 
cept for a Papal consecration it was the most splendid 
gathering in any Roman church since the Emperor had 
kissed the Pope’s foot on the day of his crowning in St. 
Peter’s with all the pomp of the Holy Roman Empire — the 
Cross, the Sword, the Sceptre, the Lance, the Golden 
Apple. Perhaps Gregory had it in his mind to refresh 
Frederick’s memory by this unwonted magnificence : it was 
a reminder that the Church had abated no jot of her rights 
and sacred authority. 

The congregation was no less splendid. The great Guelf 
families resident in Rome, the Colonnas, the Anibaldi, the 
Savelli, the Graziani, the Castiglioni, and a score more, firm 
supporters of the Pope as against the Emperor, however 
they might quarrel among themselves, were all present, 
with Benincasa, the Senator, to lend the weight of the city’s 
official approval. That Crescenzo, and those who rode 
outh with him, were clad soberly, with here and there a 
flash of steel or a grim hint of mail, only served to heighten 
141 


142 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


the lavish magnificence of the throng surrounding them 
as they knelt in a group in the middle of the church before 
the altar rails. 

Behind, Bianca knelt with the countess: behind them 
were their women, behind them the grooms and men-at- 
arms who formed the guard, together with a cluster of 
friars, both black and grey, who travelled under Crescenzo’s 
protection. 

If the girl was consumed with something of the awe 
which had shaken her five days before in the Vatican it was 
no wonder. All her life she had been accustomed to the 
simplicity of the little church in Malazzorbo, with its four 
bare, whitewashed walls dimly lit by small, high-pitched 
windows, its crude altar table unadorned except for a single 
cross, the sacred vessels in ill-kept brass, a pair of heavy 
candlesticks and a single swinging lamp. Now the splend- 
our of the altar-service, paten and chalice, pyx, monstrance 
and reliquary; all of gold and glittering with gems, the 
towering many-branched candelabra ablaze with lights, 
the solemn sadness of the marble Christ, heart-broken for 
the world’s sin, the silver censers, the wreaths of incense 
rising like the prayers of saints, the slow, sonorous chant 
swelling with the deepening peal of the organ, all com- 
pelled an abashment where exaltation struggled for place 
with holy reverence. And the central figure of it all was 
he who had said, The work of the Church is the work of 
God — go in peace. 

But if the glory and magnificence of the ceremonial 
within the church raised her, as it were, to the gate of 
heaven itself, the scene without, fronting the approach, 
speedily brought her down to earth. Here the common folk 
of the city were gathered in a dense throng, an open space 
in front of the church doors being kept clear with difficulty 
by the Papal guard. Nor was it altogether a friendly 
crowd : cries of, “God and the Emperor !” grew to such a 


143 


ALVANO OF THE ARNO FORD 

volume that Crescenzo, his foot already in the stirrup, 
turned back to draw aside his cousin Colonna. 

“You hear them, Giovanni? God and the Emperor! 
Warn His Holiness that the beast is on the prowl. Let him 
feed it or cow it, lest it bite.” 

“Bah!” answered Colonna, “the Crusade will end that 
folly. With God and Gregory here, and the Emperor in 
Palestine, the beast will get to his lair again. The Crusade, 
cousin, the Crusade; there must be the Crusade: you 
understand?” and Crescenzo nodded, turning down steps 
again to where his squire held his horse. 

Pandone had said his farewells before the ceremony. 
As Emilia was present at the time, midway between tears 
and a child’s happy excitement, he was unable to urge any 
final instructions and had the wisdom to avoid the religios- 
ity which might have seemed natural to the occasion ; per- 
haps it was a sense of the fitness of things, perhaps he had 
come to respect his niece’s frankness of reply and feared to 
provoke a retort. 

“In every need,” he said, “apply to Crescenzo; he will 
honour every demand. Your waiting- woman is experienced 
and faithful: I think, my child, you need have no fears 
amongst those cousins you are so anxious to meet, strangers 
though they are.” 

“No stranger than you were, Father,” answered Bianca, 
“and yet I was not afraid : nor, of course, had I any cause 
for fear.” 

“And remember,” he added paternally, “there is always 
Rome.” Then, somewhat hastily, he gave her his benedic- 
tion, which Bianca received with sincere humility, dis- 
tinguishing, and rightly, between the office and the man. 

Emilia’s farewells were said on the steps of the Lateran. 
She was then frankly all tears, and Bianca’s heart was 
touched as it had not been even at the separation from Tita 
in Malazzorbo. In that tempestuous parting there had been 


144 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

a strange mingling of resentment, anger and respect with 
the peasant woman’s fierce passion of affection ; here it was 
all the poignant sorrow of bruised love. 

“I can go no further, cousin Bianca,” wept the child- 
woman, “but Cosimo will ride with you as far as he may.” 

“Cosimo !” whispered Bianca, searching for a future hap- 
piness to comfort a present misery. 

“I always call him Cosimo when I am in trouble. Cousin 
Bianca, you will not always stay in the south with these 
cousins who do not want you?” 

“Be sure,” answered Bianca, kissing her, “I shall not 
stay where I am not wanted,” and in her thoughts she 
added, There is always Malazzorbo; the Cardinal’s “There 
is always Rome” had, she knew, its reservations. 

As she rode through the crowded streets towards the 
Porto San Giovanni, with Alessandro on one side and 
Rivara on the other, it seemed to Bianca as if Rome always 
kept holiday. Often one or other had to fall back to avoid 
collision with the loungers, and when it was Pandone 
she was thankful — it checked for a moment the stream 
of inconsequent chatter, a compound of half amorous la- 
ment and gasconade, he thought appropriate to the 
occasion. Rivara, with greater comprehension, rode in 
silence. 

But once beyond the walls, the crowd thinned away 
to emptiness, and the long, dull stretch of the Appian 
Way before him, Pandone wearied. He loved the rush 
of movement, the burr of voices, the clang of feet, the 
imminence of warm walls. Here there was indeed the 
tramp of feet, but it was the rhythm of men on the march, 
not the ringing tramp of busy streets, and the open spaces 
daunted him; with a maimed farewell he turned his horse 
and galloped back to the comfortable narrowness of Rome, 
while Rivara, who loved Rome as Alessandro Pandone 
never could, rode on. 


145 


ALVANO OF THE ARNO FORD 

But not for long. A shrewd man and a sympathetic he 
saw how the strain tugged at Bianca’s nerves now that the 
inevitable was upon her, and knew that the swift breaking 
of the last link would be a kindness. 

“Signorina,” he said abruptly, “I promised my help and 
it is yours whenever you ask it and at any cost. What 
lies before you I do not know, my doubt is if you know 
yourself, but it is either success in your purpose, what- 
ever it may be, or Malazzorbo. For God’s sake decide 
wisely. Say the word even now and I will see you safe to 
Malazzorbo, let His Eminence flame how he will — I could 
do no less for — for — the signorina’s sake and your own.” 

But though there were tears in her eyes she only shook 
her head. “My cousin is fortunate. Signor Rivara, I am 
grateful but I must go south.” 

“Then I will put you into Crescenzo’s care and ride back ; 
a slow heart-break is a heart twice broken. And, signorina, 
we have this for our comfort — Crescenzo is an honourable 
gentleman.” 

Leaning aslant he held out his hand, and Bianca, taking 
it, held it for an instant. “I will not be afraid. Tell 
Emilia I shall see her within a month, but tell no one else.” 
Then they trotted on to where Crescenzo rode by the side of 
his wife’s litter. 

Here the adieux were formal. After three minutes of 
courtesies Rivara, bare-headed, wheeled and galloped 
northwards while Bianca, riding slowly beside the litter, 
faced southwards, looking desolate and seeing nothing of 
the long, straight highway which seemed to stretch into 
infinity before her. Hers was not the first sore heart by 
many a thousand that had trod the Appian Way under 
foot, numb through its pain to the life of the moment. 

Of a set purpose Ursula di Crescenzo left the girl to 
ride in silence. There are two main methods of aiding 
the bruised in spirit — one, to interpose changed thoughts 


146 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


in order that Time may have leisure to apply his balm ; the 
other, to leave nature to her own healing. This latter is 
the more heroic but the more sure since, at times, the first 
is little better than a narcotic whose effects pass, whereas 
the second has all the bracing of a victory won. 

And without doubt Bianca’s strong nature would have 
won her victory over the bitter sense of isolation and help- 
lessness which beleaguered her, but a voice she knew 
broke in upon and aided the struggle while it was at its 
fiercest. 

“His Excellency, the Count di Crescenzo?” said Alvano 
from behind the litter. “I am Luca Alvano, in the ser- 
vice of his Grace, the Emperor, and am returning to Capua. 
May I be allowed to join your train? The roads are none 
too safe for solitary travellers.” 

Crescenzo drew bridle, and at a sharp word the litter 
halted. “An Alvano of Gamerata?” he demanded. It was 
an important part of his business to know, and value with 
due proportion, the great families of the peninsula, north 
and south. 

Alvano laughed. “The head of my race, Excellency, if 
that be any advantage.” 

“Then you are Alvano of the Arno ford?” 

“Oh, Excellency, that is old history. Better than all 
these, my cousin, the Signorina Pandone, will vouch for 
me.” 

“By the Lord God,” said Crescenzo heartily, “if you are 
Alvano of the Arno ford you need no vouching to me.” 
Stooping, he looked into the litter. “Ursula, I present to 
you Signor Alvano of Gamerata — and the Arno ford !” 

“And which is it to-day?” she answered, leaning for- 
ward, a smile in her shrewd eyes, “Gamerata or the Arno ? 
Frankly, Signor Alvano, I prefer Gamerata.” 

“Oh, Countess, I have already told His Excellency that 
the Arno is ancient history and forgotten.” 


ALVANO OF THE ARNO FORD 


147 


“Then the Church has a better memory than the Em- 
pire,” she retorted. The light answer held a biting truth ; 
Rome rarely forgave and never forgot. Then, as they all 
moved forward again a thought struck her, “Marco, tell 
Signorina Pandone the story of the Arno ford.” 

“No, Excellency, no ; I protest,” cried Alvano. “In times 
of peace war should be forgotten.” 

“There you are wrong,” she answered, “war is always 
nearest when it is forgotten, and those who desire peace 
should remember.” But she pressed the point no further, 
and turned to Bianca. “You knew your cousin in Rome ?” 

“We met twice.” 

“Um ! twice is sometimes better than two hundred times ! 
Did you know he was coming south?” 

“No, signora.” 

“I see. Signor Alvano, this riding four abreast jolts 
the litter, and I am a selfish woman who loves her ease. 
Could you ride behind with your cousin?” Then, as they 
reined back, she said softly to Crescenzo: “Did you see 
how red she went? The young of the kind is always inter- 
esting.” 

“Young!” he echoed, “Alvano is no boy.” 

“All men are young at the beginning,” she said, and 
glanced up at him under drooped lashes. “Are you so old, 
Marco ?” 

“Old? I? Not I! Why sweetheart, a woman keeps 
a man young, or makes him old before his time, just as 
she pleases.” 

“And so you see this Luca Alvano may be only a boy 
after all,” she said, smiling up at him. “But it was the 
girl I had in my mind. Watch her, Marco — No ! not now. 
For a Pope’s ambassador you are dull at times; now is 
the time not to watch her, but watch her in Capua. She 
may get to the heart of truth while you are still arms- 
length of in the dark. It is my belief she knows all about 


148 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


the Arno ford by this time, if not, she is a greater fool 
and less curious than I take her to be.” 

“So that is why the litter jolted, and you loved your 
selfish ease, all of a sudden?” said Crescenzo, laughing. 

“Ah, the poor souls!” Her eyes went dim and few 
who did not know her very well would have recognised 
the great lady whose caustic tongue w^on a wide respect 
but little affection. “Love is the greatest thing in the 
world, Marco ! She only saw him twice but her heart was 
breaking because she thought she had left him behind! 
And he, who had only seen her twice, said nothing but 
followed her in secret,” which shows that a knowledge 
of the great world does not bring omniscience, nor make 
plain the secrets of a man and a maid. Bianca had had 
no thought at all of Alvano, and he but used her as a 
pretext for thrusting himself upon Crescenzo in the inter- 
ests of the Emperor, his master. 

But in one thing Ursula di Crescenzo was right. Bianca 
knew as much of the story of the Arno ford as she could 
draw from Alvano; later she heard it more fully from 
Crescenzo himself. And yet again the woman of the world 
was in error. It was neither curiosity nor interest, but a 
nervous desire to cover the awkwardness of the moment, 
that prompted the question. 

“And what is this Arno ford they talk about. Signor 
Alvano?” 

“Signor Alvano !” he echoed, fencing the question. “Are 
we not cousins ?” 

“So little cousins that I know nothing of the Arno 
ford.” 

“So much cousins that I might presume to tell you the 
story ; one does not talk of such things to strangers.” 

“Such things ! What things ?” 

“Things that Luca can tell Bianca and Bianca Luca, 
but which Signor This does not talk of to Signorina That.” 


ALVAHO OF THE ARHO FORD 149 

In spite of herself she laughed, as he meant she should. 
“I think you are very good.” 

“That proves the cousinship,” he declared. “You have 
dared to say what the world only thinks ! And what are 
cousins and such-like for but to tell us truths? Only I 
do not know that they always tell it so pleasantly. Mostly 
our friends’ truths are like the medicine of the apothecary, 
wholesome if bitter.” 

“Then what was this Arno ford, Signor Luca ?” 

“Ho, no. Hot that! That, or rather its counterpart, 
is what your maid says to you — Signorina Bianca!” 

“How do you know I have a maid?” 

He turned upon her in a sudden white passion, all the 
playful banter by which he sought to set her at her ease 
gone from his face. “Do you mean Pandone has dared to 
send you amongst strangers ■” 

“Ho,” she broke in hastily, “I have a maid, she is be- 
hind with the Countess’ women. And, do you know, I 
think I am more afraid of her than I am of the Countess !” 

“Did His Eminence choose her? His Eminence under- 
stands women better than men, I think. Tell me about 
her.” 

“Ho, tell me about the Arno ford, Cousin Luca.” 

“That is better,” he answered, slipping once more into 
banter, “but the cousin is redundant. If I were not a 
cousin you would not call me Luca, hence there is no need 
to express it in words. The Arno ford? That was noth- 
ing ; war might bring the like to any man. His Excellency 
was on one side, I on the other ” 

“Of the river ?” she interrupted. 

He laughed. “Yes, and worse. He fought for the Lom- 
bards, I for the Emperor. It was just that he wished to 
cross the ford and I thought not! As I held the bank I 
had my way of it, that is all.” 


150 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“All?” she echoed, disappointed. “Were the numbers 
equal ?” 

“Sufficiently,” he answered carelessly. “Besides, it is 
always easier to defend than attack. And now question 
for question: Why are you going south?” Pandone, it 
may be remembered, had given him a reason, but neither 
at the time nor later had Alvano thought it entirely ade- 
quate. 

“I hope to see my cousins,” she answered briefly. 

“Your cousins?” 

“Yes.” 

“In Capua?” 

“Yes.” 

For a moment Alvano made no reply but sat looking 
straight before him thinking rapidly. This was not the 
Cardinal’s reason but it trenched upon it. Then he said 
very quietly: “Is it Pandone’s mistake or yours? We have 
no cousins in Capua.” 

“None in Capua?” Her quick wit saw the danger that 
threatened to tumble the fabric of pretence into ruins be- 
fore ever it was made use of. ‘‘Where, then ?” 

“In Gamerata and Nicastro.” 

“Then I must go on to Gamerata or Nicastro after I 
have rested in Capua.” Her voice was firm, but Alvano, 
glancing aside, saw that a pallor had crept into her face. 
Instantly he threw off his gravity. 

“Cousins,” he scoffed, “Capua is worth all the cousins 
in the world — except, of course, the one who will share the 
Capuan days with you ! Capua is the warm heart of Sicily, 
Capua is the centre and core of a nation’s life, Capua is 
the East in the West, Capua is — Capua!” and thencefor- 
ward he kept up a stream of gay nothings, while in the 
depths of his mind he asked why the grey old wolf and that 
fox Pandone were driving this girl from Rome ? 


CHAPTEE XVII 


Through the Patrimony of Peter 

Having skirted the Alban lake they camped that night 
upon the upper waters of a small stream beyond Velletri 
With their guard of infantry four-score strong, their hand 
ful of horse soldiery, their train of servants, both men and 
women, to represent camp followers, and their line of bag- 
gage-waggons, their march was like that of an army in 
miniature. Nor was there any slackness of discipline; 
watches were set, sentinels posted, and throughout the 
night patrols kept the camp clear of prowlers: Bianca 
sharing a tent with Ursula di Crescenzo, might have slept 
as securely as in Borne. 

And there was need for the patrol. As they rode out 
next morning, with the tent already struck and sent for- 
ward on mule-back under guard to be in readiness at the 
night’s halting-ground, Alvano bade Bianca not turn to the 
left. Promptly, in the perversity of nature, she turned that 
way and went white to the lips. 

“Oh, Luca, Luca, what does it mean?” she cried, a 
catch in her voice. 

“Thieves,” he answered briefly. “Crescenzo has a heavy 
hand and a grim justice. Velletri might have done its own 
ugly work,” and he, too, turned where three wisps of 
humanity hung from as many triangles. With every puff 
of wind they swayed, with every fresher puff they swang 
and danced, grotesque, horrible and unutterably piteous. 
“Hot that I blame Crescenzo, nor must you hold it against 
him,” he added hastily. “It is ghastly, and yet but for 
151 


152 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


this sharp lesson the whole camp might be looted to-night. 
Such things spread like a plague unless stamped out.” 

“Oh,” she wailed, shaken and dismayed, “if it be like 
this now, under the hand of the Church, what will it he 
under your dreadful Emperor!” 

“Ride on, cousin, ride on,” he answered brusquely. 
“You will find no wayside thieves in Sicily. In Rome they 
tell strange lies against His Highness, but if they told the 
truth they would own he has brought peace to the nation 
and made the highway safe.” 

“By hanging three times three and for less cause, I 
make no doubt,” she retorted, and drawing rein, held back 
that she might ride alone. 

Alvano shrugged his shoulders and kept his place. It 
was, he supposed, a woman’s logic to fall foul of the Em- 
peror for Crescenzo’s fault, which, indeed, was no fault at 
all, but all the same it disappointed him. The little he 
had seen of Bianca Pandone had taught him to expect a 
wider tolerance, a broader grasp of mind. The weakness of 
a woman, he told himself, was that she could never look 
beyond her immediate pity or blame, and so missed the 
greater world-wide issues the nearness of these hid from 
her. But even while he measured Bianca against his stand- 
ard of womanhood, and found her wanting, he heard the 
faster trot of her horse as she ranged up in her old place 
beside him. 

“I am sorry, Cousin Luca,” she said repentantly, “Signor 
Rivara warned me against my tongue. And this time I 
was twice a fool : I know nothing of these things and have 
no cause to love the soldiers of the Church. But it galled 
me to see that horror just for thieving, when it may be 
that those who hung the poor souls are unspeakably worse,” 
and in few words she repeated the story she had told 
Rivara in the kitchen at Malazzorbo. She spoke with 
greater restraint, but the ingrained bitterness would take 


153 


THE PATRIMONY OF PETER 

no denial, and as she flamed out against the Pope “who 
would permit such vileness and yet call himself Christ’s 
Vicar” Alvano, his own blood seething hotly as he under- 
stood, told himself that here was one who could have no 
love for the grey wolf, Gregory. 

On breaking camp they had marched northeast to skirt 
the foot-hills of the Volscian mountains, then turned south 
hlong the falling valley of the Sacco, with Segni on the 
right and Anagni, the cradle of Gregory’s race and the 
chosen of the Papacy when Roman heat, whether of August 
or the unstable populace, grew to danger point, perched 
grey and remote upon their left. 

At all times Alvano was the good comrade, gay without 
folly, sober without heaviness, as the mood or the talk of 
the moment demanded. With every hour Bianca’s heart 
lightened, though every hour saw her further from Rome 
and nearer the uncertainties forced upon her by Pandone’s 
schemes of ambition. All the depression, the grievous sense 
of isolation which had leaguered her the previous day had 
disappeared, and their rout was Alvano’s doing. Very 
gratefully, if entirely silently, she acknowledged her debt, 
and then flushed till her scalp prickled at the remembrance 
of a half malicious, wholly laughing jest of Emilia’s as to 
how a woman should reward a paladin who rescued her 
three times. 

And Luca Alvano had come three times to her help 
when help was most needed — in the atrium , on the day of 
the procession and yesterday. Nor was the last any less a 
rescue because she was saved solely from her own fears. 
No man, and still more, no woman, can have a crueller 
enemy than his own terrors of the spirit. But Emilia’s 
suggestion of what the reward should be was shameful, and 
to Alvano’s astonishment, and not a little to his piqueing, 
she suddenly rode forward to join Ursula di Crescenzo, nor 
would she quit the side of the litter all that day. 


154 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Again disappointment chilled him, but this time with a 
personal sense of vexation. In her telling of the tragedy of 
Malazzorbo, no new tragedy to his experience nor the ex- 
perience of any man who had seen war, she had become 
again the woman of his imagination, deep-natnred, strong 
of spirit, tender, pitiful, frank, thinking no evil but flam- 
ing hotly against the wrong, and then at a whim she had 
hardly a yes or a no to fling at him. That her tongue was 
not cured of its sharpness he learned later. 

They camped that night not far to the west of Eerentino, 
with the sun-baked walls of the little ancient city plainly 
within sight. Bianca, that she might the better satisfy 
her curiosity, had climbed a boulder upon a small hillock 
and was keenly scanning the town when Alvano joined her. 

The scarf she had worn all day bound round her head 
had been discarded, and the cool, crisp wind, blowing from 
the sea across Monte Malaina, worked its will unhindered 
on the loops and braids of her hair, fluttering them into a 
halo which the last of the sunset set ablaze with brown-red 
fire. Her poise, as she stood with one hand brushing back 
the stray tangles from her forehead, threw the lines and 
curves of her well-knit, upright, muscular young figure into 
a statuesque relief, but though she heard him coming and 
knew his footstep she made no sign that she heard. 

“Ferentino,” he said, banally enough, “Ferentino, where 
Honorius and the Emperor met four years ago.” 

“Was that the fourth, or only the third time he vowed 
himself to the Crusade?” she asked acidly. 

“And he will keep the vow.” 

“When?” 

“When the hour has come.” 

“Which hour ? His own or the Church’s ?” 

“Oh, the Church! the Church!” answered Alvano im- 
patiently, “one would think at times the Church was God 
Himself the way it says : Thou shalt, and Thou shall not.” 


THE PATRIMONY OF PETER 


155 


“And is it not true?” 

“Perhaps, but not true of its members. The very year 
Honorius vowed Frederick to the Crusade in Ferentino 
his soldiers marched through Malazzorbo — was that God’s 
will?” and Bianca, unlearned in casuistry, had nothing to 
answer. Presently he propounded another question. 
“Which is a man’s first duty, that which lies nearest or 
furthest off? To his own people whom God has given 
him, or to the world at large?” And again, seeing this 
time where the question led her, Bianca made no reply. 

For a time Alvano, too, was silent. She was not look- 
ing at him hut at Ferentino, still clear in the sunshine 
though they by this time were in shadow, for the sun had 
slipped behind the hills. But it is doubtful if she saw 
the brown sweep of the walls, broken irregularly by towered 
gates, or the gilded spire of the cathedral where Pope and 
Emperor had met in anger and, as is fitting from such 
a place, parted in peace with expressions of mutual good- 
will. At least, her eyes were misty, and the flexible, ten- 
der, strong mouth quivered with a hardly controlled 
trouble. The fret he did not understand woke warmly in 
Alvano what he thought was a sense of cousinship, or, it 
might be, that sense of chivalry which in any man was due 
to any woman. 

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to help her to 
the ground, “what have you to do with such things that 
they should vex you ? But to-morrow we shall be in Sicily 
and perhaps you will understand my meaning. Do you 
know what the Emperor said once ? — God cannot have seen 
our Sicily, if He had He would never have planted His 
chosen people in barren Judea! The Church holds it 
against him as blasphemy, but I think if the Church only 
knew how to laugh a little common folk would love it 
more.” 

“Is Sicily so very beautiful?” 


156 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


‘‘Wait and see,” he answered, but his voice shook as 
he spoke, shook and deepened as when the spirit of a man 
is mightily moved. Men sometimes so speak of a woman 
they love, sometimes of a mother who is dead. “Come,” 
he said again, “let us live in God’s world, which is the 
world of neither priest nor Emperor,” and this time she 
laid her hand in his without hesitation. 

Later she recognised more clearly how he had fenced 
her. Even her direct question had been turned aside by 
an evasion which revealed nothing, yet was not incom- 
patible with the Emperor’s good faith. Surely the very 
fencing justified the anxiety of Rome? And yet, perhaps 
because she felt she owed him a debt, perhaps for no reason 
acknowledged to herself, she did not greatly blame him 
for his fencing. After all, he was the Emperor’s man, 
and, as he had put it while speaking of another, his duty 
was to what lay nearest : if a man be not true to bread and 
salt where may faithfulness be looked for? In any case, 
when they broke camp next morning and Ursula di Cres- 
cenzo curtly said she had private matters to talk over with 
her husband Bianca reined back alongside Alvano without 
either demur or hesitation. 

Again he was the good comrade, the man of camps, 
courts and cities, drawing upon his broad experience of 
most varied life that a tedious day might lose its tedium. 
But always from the lighter side: if war was so much as 
touched upon it was because in some passing interlude the 
mask of comedy had for a moment hid the grim visage of 
its wrinkled front, so that pity and even despair must needs 
laugh. 

Of the Arno ford he never spoke a word, nor did Bianca, 
though by this time she had heard how forty desperate 
men, under a leader who risked his life in a prodigality of 
recklessness at every danger-point, had held three hundred 
in check through a terrible half hour that turned the scale 


THE PATRIMONY OF PETER 


157 


of a campaign. What had astonished her was how Mark 
of Crescenzo had told the story of his defeat without bitter- 
ness or animosity : there was even admiration trenching on 
enthusiasm. It was another lesson in how men can look 
beyond the immediate narrow issues at the greatness which 
lies beyond — the greatness of a brave man’s whole-souled 
devotion to his master’s cause. 

Now, as she rode slowly at his side, silent yet responsive, 
while he talked now of the life at Palermo — but with no 
mention of the Crusade — now of the great university the 
Emperor was building at Naples, of the developing of the 
country, the securing its commerce on firm foundations, of 
the co-ordination of laws and enforcing of justice, or, it 
might be of the cities of the north, Milan, Verona, Venice, 
or again of the pure Grecian art his master was cunningly 
grafting on the more formal, cruder art of Italy, Bianca 
told herself here was such a man as she had never before 
met. How could she? His kind did not grow in Malaz- 
zorbo: Rivara, perhaps, came near to the type. But 
Rivara, in a sense, was the man of passive knowledge; 
Luca Alvano the man who translated knowledge into action, 
the man who knew the living world where the need — must 
of life — drives men, drives them to greatness betimes, and 
betimes over the lip of the pit to the nethermost hell. 

Between the two types there is no true kinship, and 
Bianca, warm-blooded, and with an eager crave for action 
in her heart, sensed and understood the difference. This, 
to her, was the higher. Then she remembered that she had 
counted Emilia as fortunate, and the flushing heat of the 
day before again prickled her to her scalp. But this time 
she did not ride forward ; perhaps because two hours before 
Ursula di Crescenzo had had affairs to talk over with her 
husband, or it may be that she, too, like Alvano, felt the 
sense of couslnship. 

The halt for dinner was beyond Frosinone. As an old 


158 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


campaigner Marco di Crescenzo kept clear of cities: it is 
easier to march in through an open gate than to collect 
the men to march out again once they have spread them- 
selves to their pleasures. It was a meal Bianca detested 
and was even beginning to dread. The table was usually 
set out under some convenient shade and prepared for 
six, places being provided for the Bishop of Arsoli, the 
clerical head of the embassy, and his chaplain. 

Gregory’s choice of an ambassador of peace was a strange 
one. Had he searched the hierarchy for a prelate more 
intolerant, more swollen with belief in the divine rights 
of his order, he might have sought long and vainly. From 
the first Alvano had been the object of his lordship’s pleas- 
ant sarcasm, while towards Bianca he oscillated between his 
knowledge of the cousinship and the deference due to the 
niece of His Eminence, the Cardinal Archbishop of San 
Marco del Monte. 

“How pleased your Emperor will be,” he said smilingly 
to Alvano. “The hand from which he took the Cross 
endowed with all the power of the Church to bless — <vr 
curse !” 

“Indifferently?” asked Alvano, also smiling. 

“Indifferently — where there is need,” answered the 
bishop. “But it will be good news we bring His High- 
ness.” 

“No news,” replied Alvano. “He has known the result 
of the election these five days.” 

“Ah !” smiled Arsoli, “it is only Rome that is in ignor- 
ance.” 

“So Rome is ignorant ?” Alvano paused, as if pondering. 
“Then that would be why one, in the atrium on the day 
of election, called His Holiness a grey wolf.” 

Arsoli stiffened rigidly. “Rome said that?” 

Alvano turned to Bianca, “You heard it in the atrium ?” 
Then, as she bowed, turning aside to hide the smile in her 


THE PATRIMONY OF PETER 


159 


eyes, he went on gravely, “It was their ignorance, Lord 
Bishop ; they did not know that he is just a very gentle- 
hearted, very learned, very worn old man, so desirous of 
peace that he sends you to represent him in Capua.” With' 
a significant shift of his shoulder, closing the discussion, 
he faced Crescenzo, “Signor, where do we camp to-night?” 

“Near Pontecorvo,” answered Crescenzo, and the tension 
slackened. 

But later, as he rode side by side with Bianca, Alvano 
returned to the interchange. 

“Do you blame me? A lie, you will say, since I put 
my own words into another’s mouth; and yet, no lie, since 
Rome thinks as I do.” 

“You call him a wolf,” she said slowly, her eyes bright 
with reminiscence, “to me, as he laid his hand on me in 
blessing, he seemed something more than man.” 

Alvano nodded comprehension. “Perhaps we are both 
right. Only, where does the beast end and the divine 
begin? For in men there are certainly the two, and in 
Gregory more definitely than in most. I do not decry him, 
far from it. Gregory is a great man, but so doubled up 
with the burden of his limitations that he cannot see 
clearly before him. His age ? Oh, no. His age is a prop, 
not a burden. There is no decay of the intellect and his 
years force an added respect. The burden that crushes him 
is this firm conviction, the Church is the world and I am 
the Church! For him the eternal pillars are founded in 
the Pope’s chair.” 

“And have you. no burdens?” she asked, half laughing 
at his seriousness, “you and your Emperor ?” 

He looked at her a moment, then joined in her laughter, 
but only ruefully. “Burdens ? God knows, yes ; wait, and 
you will see them.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Stupor Mundi 

It was a little later, with Erosinone perhaps three hours 
behind, that Alvano suddenly clapped spurs to his horse 
and rode ahead at so brisk a trot that the plodding train 
if men-at-arms and horses marching at a foot’s-pace was 
soon left behind. Surprised, but full of a growing belief 
what Luca Alvano did he did for a good reason, Bianca 
watched him disappear over a rising hummock thickly set 
with small timber, nor even then did she ride forward to 
join the litter. 

Beyond the wooded rise the ground sloped down irregu- 
larly to a wide stream. The water was no great depth, 
for the current broke in noisy ripples crisply white over the 
stony bed. The banks were shelving and shallow, and on 
the further side Alvano waited at the ford’s edge, his horse 
faced round to meet them. 

While the van passed forward he sat silent and motion- 
less, but bared his head as Crescenzo and the swaying lit- 
ter topped the bank. 

“In the name of my master, the Emperor, welcome to 
Sicily*,” he said in a loud voice. “There is nothing His 
Grace desires more than the loving goodwill of our Holy 
'Father, the Pope.” 

“And to speak that loving goodwill I am come,” began 
Crescenzo ; but from behind Arsoli cut in, 

*The Kingdom of Sicily comprised not only the island of 
Sicily, but the Southern portion of the peninsula, approxi- 
mately to the extent of about one-third. 

160 


STUPOR MU3STDI 


161 


“Let him give us deeds, not words, Signor Alvano. 
There was once a man who said, I go to work in the vine- 
yard — but went not.” 

But Alvano ignored the intervention and turned to the 
Countess, still bareheaded, “Signora, nowhere in the world 
are wit and beauty more welcome than in Sicily.” 

“Why not add youth, Signor Alvano?” she who had 
lost her youth but retained a stately charm, asked half 
whimsically. “So this is the country of the great ogre, is 
it?” 

“Oh, signora,” he answered, laughing. “You must have 
been listening to fairy tales which not even those who tell 
them believe.” 

“Tales of fairies, rather,” she retorted. “That is, if 
half the stories whispered in Rome be true. And now, 
since wit and beauty and youth are so welcome in Sicily go 
to your cousin and tell her so,” and with a friendly nod 
she sank back in the litter. 

But if Alvano did as he was bid it was not in so many 
words. 

“Sicily, cousin.” Only the two words, but they were 
spoken as when a man speaks devoutly of holy things. 

“You love Sicily?” she said, quite conscious of the in- 
sufficiency of the answer. 

“I am sacrificing my life for her.” 

The significance of the present tense escaped Bianca. 
“Is it a sacrifice to live for one’s country?” she bantered. 

Alvano hesitated. It might have been well if he had 
said, “Yes, if that life is the life of a priesthood for which 
the man has no vocation.” But he did not, and perhaps 
could not, because of the explanations that would have been 
sought and were not his to give. 

“To a man who is a man I can conceive that there are 
times when death might be easier than life/’ he answered 
soberly. 


162 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

At a dawning significance in his eyes, a significance of 
which he was unconscious, she felt herself reddening under 
the tanning of sun and wind and therefore held to her 
banter. “And are you not a man who is a man, you who 
came to my help twice over •” There she paused, hesi- 

tating, as she remembered the third succouring and 
Emilia’s jesting malice. To cover her confusion she re- 
verted to her earlier banter. “And is the burden already 
on your back, now that you have crossed the border ?” 

“The burden of Empire never lifts, and there it is,” 
he- answered, pointing to a village of fifty houses clustered 
on the crest of a near-by slope. “That is the duty that 
lies nearest — to keep these safe, to give even the poorest 
of them some taste of the good of life ; to secure the harvest 
to those who sow ; to say to them, Sleep in peace when your 
day’s labour is over — the Emperor watches.” 

“Watches? Watches against what?” 

“Against the stronger neighbour ; against ” he 

turned in his saddle, looking backwards the way they had 
come, “Against my lord of Arsoli and his like. Were you 
so safe in Malazzorbo that you need to be told?” And 
Bianca, remembering Giuseppi’s many bitter complaints of 
how the strong ground the weak and the brutal oppressed 
the helpless, with no hope of justice done, held her peace : 
Malazzorbo had no need to be told; and yet Malazzorbo 
was in the Patrimony of Peter. 

“Ten years ago,” went on Alvano, eyes and voice alike 
grave, “every man in Sicily did as he listed or lusted to the 
full power of the evil spirit that was in him. Then Fred- 
erick said, I am as much the Emperor of hind and herd as 
of knight and noble, aye, and of priest also; who touches 
mine to their hurt touches me. So, little by little, safety 
and the leave to live in the good of life have grown up. To 
keep these secured to the people is the burden of Empire, 
and with Frederick in Palestine who shall shoulder the 


STUPOR MUNDI 


163 


weight?” And again Bianca was silent. This Emperor, 
whom she was in Sicily to cajole, was not altogether the 
Herod Pandone had called him. 

Amongst what has been described as the camp-followers 
of Crescenzo’s army were, as has been said, friars of both 
the newly-formed orders. With these Bianca Pandone 
came in contact from time to time, but to one only was she 
attracted. She had observed him first at her uncle’s table, 
a Franciscan, whose gentle, eager face and sorrowful weak- 
ness of health, his troubled breathing, broken by a signifi- 
cant hollow cough, moved both her interest and pity. 

Brother Cornelius, as she heard him called, had been 
one of the group of monks at the service in the Lateran, 
and later she had recognized him following, with painful 
difficulty, in the long train of the camp attendants. His 
cough showed clearly how the exertion fretted his strength, 
but when Bianca spoke to him he had neither request nor 
complaint to make, though when she procured him leave 
to ride on a baggage waggon his gratitude was unbounded. 

At the mid-day halt he joined her, as he frequently did 
when it was unobtrusively possible. 

“Sicily at last, sister?” 

“Yes, and then?” 

“Palestine, I hope.” He looked wistfully at her, his 
eyes luminous, yet troubled. “But that cannot be till 
August, and this is only April ! Four months of life, sister !” 

“But you will grow stronger in Sicily.” 

“Thanks to our good brother, the sun.” Drawing a 
long breath he shook the grey hood back upon his shoulders. 
“Yes, the air is sweet, but the air of Christ’s birth-land 
will be sweeter still. Will the Crusade sail, sister?” 

“God willing,” she answered, puzzled how best to reply. 

“But man sometimes says a ~No to the Yes of God, else 
there would be no sin in the world, and surely to hold 
back the Crusade will be a mortal sin?” 


164 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“But why do you ask me if the Crusade will sail?” she 
demanded. 

“Signor Alvano must know,” he answered, and waited, 
dumb as a patient dog. 

It was a relief that then the trumpet sounded to reform, 
and put an end to his probing. 

That night they lay at Pontecorvo, and next day, having 
threaded the passes of the hills to east and south, Cres- 
cenzo pitched his camp near Teano. Thence to Capua was 
such a short half-day’s journey that by a forced march the 
city might have been entered over-night. 

But Crescenzo was too wise a man of the world to throw 
away a point in the great game being played between the 
Church and the Emperor. Italians, especially those of 
the south, are impressionable, their hearts touched, at 
times, through eye or ear : to have slunk into the city under 
cover of darkness, dishevelled, hungry, weary from a long 
day’s march, would give a very false idea of the Holy 
Father’s dignity and power at the very time when these 
were in question. 

Therefore, that morning, every spot of rust was scoured 
from the armour ; every steel bit, cheek-buckle, stirrup iron, 
lance-head, polished till the sun burned on them in dia- 
mond sparks. The very curtains of the litter were renewed, 
silk brocade of the richest being substituted for the dusty 
linen, and Crescenzo himself sat his horse in such a mag- 
nificence of gold and silver, satin and silk, as Bianca would 
have supposed impossible even in a dream, had she not 
seen Gregory’s procession pass on its way from Saint 
Peter’s to the Lateran. 

But notwithstanding the many preparations dew was 
still wet on the herbage when they broke camp. With the 
passage to the south of the hills a new season seemed 
suddenly to have opened, and to Bianca this early April 
day was like her memory of the Marches in June, the air 


STUPOR MUNDI 


165 


was so soft and balmy, the wild flowers so far pushed for- 
ward, the foliage so luxuriant in its vigour. If this was 
Sicily it was no wonder that Alvano loved his land so pas- 
sionately, and that the Emperor clung to its seductive 
beauty even in the teeth of his three-fold oath. 

It was plain that Alvano was familiar with every yard 
of the way. More than once he shortened the road by 
saving a detour, and when Bianca jested that it was as well 
for the Holy Father’s peace of mind that he did not know 
the highways of the Patrimony of Peter as familiarly he 
laughed, and bade her remember that this was not the 
shortest way from Capua to Rome. 

“And why did we not come by the shortest way?” she 
asked, as curious to hear his answer as to know the 
reason. 

“Because of the protection of Velletri, Ferentino and 
Frosinone against prowling bandits! It is a wise Holy 
Father who knows his own children and runs no needless 
risks !” 

But for the most part Alvano rode in silence, gravely 
occupied with troubled thoughts. Some men come to a 
conclusion in anticipation, and lay away the finding to be 
used when the need rises; others hold, as it were, their 
knowledge in solution, waiting till the last moment for the 
crystals of decision to form. Alvano was of these latter, 
and with every one of these last leagues conviction grew 
that the deductions he would have to lay before his master 
were bad for the peace of Sicily. 

Very carefully he tested them over and over again, as a 
man, knowing his life depends upon it, tests his armour 
before battle, but always they rang the same note — Greg- 
ory’s arrogant insistence on the immeasurable power of the 
Popedom, an insistence which claimed not only the keys 
of the world which shall be, but also a dominance, temporal 
and spiritual, over the world which now is. To such a 


166 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


claim the Emperor must say a plain No ! driven thereto not 
only by force of character but also by force of policy. 

So preoccupied was Alvano that he failed to hear the 
baying of dogs from a hunting-party in the distance, and 
only Bianca’s persistent curiosity roused him. Peasants 
at work early in the fields, or a few travelling merchants 
with their laden pack-horses, had been all she had so far 
seen of life in Sicily : here was promise of a greater interest. 
He looked at her confusedly for. an instant, before follow- 
ing with his gaze the gesture of her arm as she questioned 
him, then his lethargy broke up in hot excitement, and 
crying an incoherency he drove his horse at a gallop across 
the intervening open country. 

At his evident emotion Bianca’s curiosity deepened into 
alert, expectant watchfulness as she followed his headlong 
course. There were eight or ten horsemen in the group 
and at Alvano’s reckless approach two pushed to the front 
while the rest halted. But almost immediately he was 
recognized, and with their doubts removed those in advance 
drew back, turning their horses in at the rear. 

And a headlong approach it was, the dashing gallop 
of an expert rider who trusts himself and his horse alike 
with a perfect confidence in the sureness of foot and skill 
of hand. Over bush or boulder he leaped; where the 
obstacle was too high he swerved, where it was thin and 
light he crashed through. To Bianca it was a revelation 
in horsemanship, and its calculated recklessness suggested 
the Luca Alvano of Arno ford. To her astonishment she 
was conscious of a tremor, or something more than a 
tremor, of fear. 

While still forty yards from the waiting group Alvano 
checked his horse to a slow trot and bared his head. The 
act startled Bianca with all the surprise of a shock, and a 
tingling thrill swept her as she recognized its significance. 
Before whom in all Sicily would Luca Alvano sit his horse 


STUPOR MUNDI 167 

so humbly? The answer trod on the question’s heels — the 
Emperor, and the Emperor only. 

No patrol, trotting unconcernedly along a country by- 
way, and finding itself suddenly in touch with the enemy, 
could have more vital cause for debate. What shall it do — - 
flee or fight? Even then there was always Malazzorbo. 
For an instant she watched, tense and uncertain, her pulses 
leaping as the heart-beat quickened in the conflict of 
doubt; then with a rapid sweep of the hand she unfolded 
the scarf-like wimple from her hair, twisted it round the 
horn of her riding-chair, shook her head to free the 
cramped braids and rode forward to join the litter. Already 
Alvano was trotting slowly back towards them, but not 
alone, and he rode with his head bared. 

Crescenzo turned enquiringly to the girl as she joined 
the litter. 

“The Emperor,” she said, answering the dumb question. 

“The Emperor ! Are you sure ?” 

“Would Luca ride cap in hand at the knee of any other 
man? Yes, it is certainly the Emperor.” 

“Luca !” said Ursula di Crescenzo. “But why not, since 
you came to Sicily to find cousins! And do you always 
ride bare-headed in the sun?” 

“It is hot,” answered Bianca, but though the red in her 
cheeks gave colour to the reply her eyes did not flinch. She 
had come to a decision : her hair was an added glory, and 
she knew it. 

“EPm, best keep the heat out of your blood lest it scorch 
you. What do you think, Marco; is it the ogre?” But 
Crescenzo made no reply: Alvano, still uncovered, was 
riding forward alone. 

“His Grace !” he called out while still ten yards away. 

The entire train was halted, and all eyes, both from 
front and rear, were turned on the solitary horseman riding 
at a foot pace to join Alvano, and their curiosity was justi- 


168 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


fled. Here was the greatest layman in Italy, the man of 
the hour, pre-eminent in rank, power, intellect and political 
comprehension: according to a contemporary chronicler, 
and that chronicler a churchman, he was the wonder of the 
world. To Gregory he was more — he was the spectre of 
progress and liberty of thought. 

What they saw was a man of medium height who sat his 
horse as if he and it were one. Deep-chested and broad of 
shoulder for his inches Frederick gave every sign of great 
physical strength, but it was the grace and power of well- 
steeled muscles trained to perfect health rather than the 
brawn of huge thews. His ruddy, comely face was smooth- 
shaven, the crisp, close-clipped curling hair fair almost to 
redness, the grey eyes full, clear and keen, the nose and 
chin large and prominent, the lips round and fleshy : not a 
handsome face, not a beauty face, but a face women would 
look at twice, and men, who understand men, more than 
twice. He was dressed in the one colour throughout — hose, 
trunks and doublet, even to the silk cap, were of a warm 
russet: a gold chain round the neck and another wound 
through the folds of his cap were his sole jewellery. 

“Your highness,” went on Alvano as Frederick rode 
level with his bridle, “I present to you His Excellency, the 
Count di Crescenzo, who is in Sicily on the part of His 
Holiness, Pope Gregory the Ninth.” 

“A sorrow and a gladness,” answered Frederick, acknowl- 
edging Crescenzo’s deep reverence. His voice was strong, 
rich and smooth, as became his depth of chest and full, 
rounded throat. “Honorius was a true Father in God to 
my young manhood, and from my heart I mourn his death. 
But while the Church weeps for his loss she must rejoice 
that the Divine power has given her in his place a Head 
full of such ripe wisdom. For me, though death has robbed 
me I doubt not I have still a friend and father.” 

“It is so to assure Your Grace that I am in Sicily,” 


STUPOR MUHDI 169 

replied Crescenzo, bonnet in hand. But Arsoli, who had 
joined the group, struck in. 

“A father, yes; but at times it is the duty of a father 
to admonish.” 

Frederick’s only reply was a glance of enquiry at Alvano. 

“His Grandeur, the Lord Bishop of Arsoli.” 

“Ah !” said Frederick, “I thought the voice was the voice 
of Jacob.” He turned to Crescenzo. “Your Excellency, 
your formal message must wait a reception worthy its 
dignity. Meanwhile, I see you are not alone.” 

“Ho, Your Highness. Have I permission to present the 
Countess di Crescenzo?” 

Instantly the Emperor uncovered. “Countess, your 
honoured husband brings a double welcome. And is the 
signorina your sister? What is the text. Lord Bishop? 
How beautiful are those who bring good tidings of peace.” 

“How beautiful are the feet, runs the text,” answered 
Arsoli sourly. 

A gleam of humour lit Frederick’s grey eyes as he 
glanced at the stirrups of Bianca’s riding-chair. “I were a 
heretic to dispute the correction with Your Grandeur.” 

“The Signorina Pandone is my cousin, Your Grace.” 

The sourness in Alvano’s voice was almost as acid as that 
of the churchman, but Frederick did not so much as glance 
aside. 

“Your cousin? Then, signorina, you are half Sicilian, 
and so already half my friend; may the half become the 
whole before April is much older. Countess, Capua is not 
Rome, but in our barbaric fashion we shall try to make 
you forget Rome; Your Excellency, next to a tried friend 
an honourable enemy has my sincerest welcome and warm- 
est regard; Your Grandeur, as I have said, Capua is not 
Rome. How I must go back to my wolf-hunting to keep 
myself in trim for hunting the fiercer beast later on : 
Alvano will see to your comfort in the palace,” and with 


170 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


a gesture that was at once a salute and a farewell he turned 
his horse and rode back to the group waiting him on the 
further hillside. 

In less than an hour they reached their journey’s end, 
but even at the sight of Capua, a town of towers and palaces 
set in a girdle of splendid woods, Alvano’s sour mood failed 

to lift. 


CHAPTEB XIX 


The Cunning of Eve 

Whatever value lay in Crescenzo’s carefully arranged 
pageant of arrival he gained to the full. It was in the 
short interval of idleness which precedes the mid-day meal 
that the head of the little column, marching in close order, 
passed the gates, and all Capua flocked to the doors and 
windows to see the bravery. 

It was Bianca’s first experience of a Sicilian town, and, 
apart from the frank contrasts with Borne and the Marches, 
a more subtle difference thrust itself upon her. At such 
a spectacle, and upon such an occasion, Borne would have 
shouted itself hoarse with enthusiasm, or howled curses as 
the mood seized it, but none, not even Crescenzo with all 
his experience, could have told whether eyes of welcome or 
disfavour peered through the veil of Capua’s silence. 

And yet the Italians of the South were said to be an 
emotional people. 

As to the city itself, contrasts and distinctions were, 
so to say, flung in Bianca’s face at every step — the warmth 
of colour, the grace of art, the almost glittering freshness 
of stone and marble, the lesser height of the houses, seem- 
ing still lower from the wider-flung breadth of street, were 
all novelties. But whether these and other distinctions 
were inherent in the South, or the gift of Capua’s newness 
as compared with the grey antiquity of Borne, she could 
not guess ; Borne was from the very birth of the ages, Capua 
a growth of the latest century. 

By Alvano’s instructions they were lodged in the left 
wing of the palace, Bianca being allotted apartments 
171 


172 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

adjoining the more elaborate set of rooms assigned to the 
head of the embassy. But though simple by comparison 
with Crescenzo’s housing they were as far an advance upon 
her knowledge of Rome in beauty of appointment and 
luxury of comfort as Rome had been beyond Malazzorbo. 
There were broad, soft couches suggestive of an Eastern 
divan; silken hangings whose quiet, restful hues called to 
repose; silver lamps of Grecian design, severely simple; 
deep-piled rugs from Persia on a floor of many differing 
woods and a great bed draped in white lawn overhung by 
thin curtains. Opening from the main apartment was a 
small retiring-room, or oratory, upon the one side, and 
upon the other the sleeping chamber of her maid. 

Because of the hour of their arrival they dined for that 
day in Crescenzo’s private apartments, and rested through 
the afternoon in anticipation of the Embassy’s formal re- 
ception by the Emperor prior to supper. It was then that 
Bianca had her first effective lesson in the art whose rudi- 
ments Satan must have whispered into Eve’s ears in para- 
dise, for the luring of mankind through all the generations. 

Asking no instructions Agata, her maid, a woman old 
enough to know that she was no longer young, and young 
enough to regret that she grew old, though still comely 
with a fleshy comeliness, chose a robe of thin sea-green silk 
for her mistress. As it lay heaped upon a couch it re- 
sembled chaos, formless and void, though divine in the 
making, but as the quick fingers set their skill to work, 
looping, folding, trussing, swathing, draping, and at times 
undraping, chaos took unto itself a soul, such a soul as 
Bianca loving dearly her old laces of Malazzorbo, had 
never dreamed the art of tissue and cunning embroidery 
possessed. And while Agata worked she talked. 

“A beautiful country, signorina; so different from the 
cold of the Marches. Why, it can never be winter here.” 

“Why the Marches?” asked Bianca. 


THE CUNNING OF EYE 


173 


“Because Jacopo, at the Pandone palace, told me you 
came from the Marches, signorina. From Malazzorbo, he 
said. I think he called it a village. Would you please to 
raise your arm. iWhat a beautiful arm you have, signorina ; 
so smooth and rounded : it is a sin against nature to hide it 
in this long sleeve. But if you lift your hand to your head, 
so, the laces will slip to the elbow. Fve heard it said that 
His Highness knows beauty when he sees it. And he does 
not see it in the Empress — a raw child scarcely seventeen, 
and he a man nearly twice her age! Yes, Malazzorbo, 
Jacopo said; but perhaps he was wrong?” 

“No,” said Bianca dully, “it was Malazzorbo.” 

Agata nodded her comely head comprehensively, almost 
with a little sympathy. “Malazzorbo? Now, after Capua 
who would wish to go back to Malazzorbo! Signorina, I 
will catch in the folds of the gown a little at the back. I 
know it is the present fashion to have it fall in a sweep 
from the throat to the knees, but by God’s Grace there are 
some who can say No to fashion and profit by it: you, 
6ignorina, for one. The catching in at the waist behind 
will throw into relief ■” 

“No!” cried Bianca passionately, “no, no: I will not 
have it like that.” 

“There, signorina, there,” said the maid soothingly, “it 
is done and it looks beautiful: you can see that for your- 
self. The Empress, as I say, is a raw child.” 

“The Empress? This is the second time you have 
spoken to me of the Empress: the Empress is nothing 
to me.” 

“No, signorina, no, of course not: Signor Alvano will 
be quite of your mind.” 

“Signor Alvano ? What do you mean by Signor 
Alvano ?” 

“Chut ! chut !” and Agata clicked her tongue tolerantly, 
her busy fingers never slacking in their work of creation. 


174 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“Do you take us for fools, signorina? Have we had no 
eyes these last four days! Do not forget how the sleeve 
slips down to the elbow, a touch of the fingers at the hair 
will do it. The good God does not give a woman beauty 
just that she should misuse it in a sleeve ! Signor Alvano, 
I am sure ” 

“Signor Alvano is nothing to me/ 5 broke in Bianca, too 
exasperated to notice how closely she kept to her form of 
words. 

“No, signorina, they never are anything until, all of a 
sudden, we find they are everything in the world. His 
Highness, the Emperor, is a proper figure of a man, and 
they say that where he trusts at all he trusts altogether. 
And I can well believe it ; one sees it in his face. A hand- 
some face I call it, the face of a man any woman might 
trust — stoop, signorina, if you please, till I fix your head- 
gear; you are so tall! I always think that men who are 
men, and not mere court popinjays, like women to be tall — 
don’t move, signorina, don’t move, just a moment and — 
there ! If there’s a Sicilian of them all to stand beside you 
I’m a fool; this wall-mirror be my judge!” 

If the sheet of polished steel, framed in a border of 
Oriental design, did not cast as brilliantly clear a reflection 
as the glass hand-mirror backed by silver, just coming into 
vogue among women of fashion, it served its purpose 
sufficiently well. Bianca certainly had never seen a mirror 
at once so large and so perfect: the drawing aside the 
curtain which helped to preserve it from tarnish was a 
revelation, and she would have been more or less a woman 
if, for the moment, she had not forgotten all else but 
herself. Indeed, it is to be doubted if any woman in health, 
and short of an age impossible to fix accurately, is ever 
displeased at what her glass tells her. 

This is what she saw. A figure straight and tall that 
bore itself with the grace of carriage which youth possesses 


THE CUNNING OF EYE 


175 


of divine right and middle age sometimes borrows: soft, 
neutral-coloured silk rose in a ruffled collar to the chin 
and fell with a curving sweep to the waist, where a buckle 
at the back cunningly controlled the folds; then it de- 
scended amply to just below the instep, showing the feet 
clear, while behind it trailed in a spreading train; the 
waist was girded by neither scarf nor belt. The sleeves 
were long, bell-mouthed and pendulous, falling in the front 
with a waved edge below the waist, as her arms hung by 
her sides, and at the back dipping almost to the floor. 
Upon her head had been set transversely a stiffened shape 
of wire and silk some twenty inches long, and of the 
breadth of a dinner plate where it sat upon the coiled hair, 
but tapering to four inches wide at the ends. Over this a 
scarf of the light sea-green silk was loosely stretched, the 
loose ends being caught under the chin in a soft bow. From 
the irregular diamond thus formed a very lovely face looked 
out, the warmth of its colouring heightened by excite- 
ment and in admirable contrast to the carefully chosen 
setting, dull, yet neither heavy nor repellent. 

“No jewels and no gold,” said the handmaid, standing 
critically by, but with the approval of the successful artist 
in her eyes. “It isn’t that we have not got them: His 
Eminence has been most generous: but I know men, and 
so for to-night I say, no jewellery. There will be gold and 
gems and glitter enough; you, signorina, will look better 
as you are.” She paused, considering, her under lip pushed 
out; then, “Signorina, brush the hair from your forehead. 
Ah !” and she struck her palms softly together as the loose 
sleeve slipped back, leaving the rounded, shapely arm bare 
to beyond the elbow, “What did I tell you! Signorina 
Bianca, do not forget that stray lock — even when it is not 
there.” 

It was then the door opened and Bianca turned to find 
Ursula di Crescenzo. For a moment the Roman dame 


176 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


looked her ward up and down with understanding, critical 
eyes, noting the pose and how the warmer flush of the face 
made effective its striking contrast with the neutral set- 
ting; then she turned to the tire-woman. 

“How did you come into the signorina’s service?” 

“Through His Eminence, Excellency.” 

“And how to His Eminence ?” 

“His Eminence, Cardinal Montelengo ” 

“I see. His Eminence is the ape of the Church. Let 
there be no ape’s tricks here or you go packing back to 
Rome ; you hear ?” 

She spoke as calmly and in as level a voice as if she had 
said, His Eminence, Cardinal Montelengo, is an anchorite 
who starves his penitents, and I will not have it. But the 
significance was unmistakable, and Bianca, disturbed and 
troubled, stammered out, 

“Signorina, is all not right — am I not ” 

“You are perfect, child, perhaps just a shade too per- 
fect. Had I a daughter I could desire nothing simpler — 
nor more likely to attract a husband !” By this time they 
were in the corridor, the door closed behind them, and 
were turning into the Countess’s own apartments. “The 
sting is that the woman is of Montelengo’s choosing, and 

Montelengo ” she broke off with a shrug. “Tell me, 

was Signor Alvano a close friend of your uncle’s?” 

“No, signora. I think he only saw my cousin twice, 
and then formally.” 

“Then that’s not the reason. And, if I am a judge, it 
would be waste. Your cousin is to introduce us to the 
court: Crescenzo and that kite in dove’s feathers, Arsoli, 
will follow — they have forms and ceremonies to go through, 
and, for my part, I like them. They have their uses. They 
are the tags and tinsel which cover ugly truths into 
decency.” 

“Like dove’s plumes on a kite,” said Bianca. 


THE CUNNING OF EVE 


177 


But Ursula di Crescenzo had no laugh for the jest. 
“Eagles can borrow dove’s plumes as easily as kites/’ she 
said, with a sudden return to her vexed humour. “I do 
not like that woman of Montelengo’s choosing,” and it was 
a relief when a lackey announced Alvano. 

But not the Alvano of the atrium or the route from 
Borne: all was changed except the frank, handsome face 
and easy, gallant bearing of the man; these, being of his 
essence, were unalterable. Because of the mourning for 
Honorius Bianca had seen nothing of the more splendid 
side of the capital of Christendom, and Alvano, in his 
ceremonial dress of slashed silks and velvets trimmed with 
fur, his pointed silken shoes, his sash of gold brocade and 
chains of gold, his belt of embossed leather, his short-bladed 
sword, the hilt damascened and inlaid, was a new figure in 
her new world. At the first glance she thought she pre- 
ferred him as in the atrium , but after the second she was 
not so sure. Quite involuntarily she put up a hand to 
brush away from the temple the stray lock which was not 
there; then, as the loose sleeve slipped beyond the elbow 
and his eyes met hers, she remembered Agata’s advice and 
flushed furiously. 


CHAPTER XX 


At the Court of the Emperor 

Once within the great hall of the palace, and upon the 
outer fringe of the crowd thronging its floor, Bianca un- 
derstood Agata’s worldly wisdom in leaving both gems and 
ornament aside. In an aviary of birds of paradise the 
brown hedge sparrow is more notable than the goldfinch. 
Ursula di Crescenzo, magnificent in gold brocade, and hung 
with the jewels of the Crescenzi and Gaetani of many gen- 
erations, could more than hold her own even in Capua, but 
not Bianca Pandone, and when to out-vie is impossible 
there is much to be said for the power of contrast. The first 
essential of successful advertisement is to draw the eye. 

The court of Frederick, Roman Emperor and King of 
both Sicily and J erusalem, was without a rival in the west- 
ern world, nor even in troubled Byzantium could its bril- 
liance be paralleled. In France Louis IX was but a child ; 
Spain was still the cock-pit of petty antagonisms, Leon, 
Gallicia, Castile, Arragon, with the Moors dominant in the 
South; in England Henry III, a weak lad of twenty, 
reigned over a nation in the making, and a land exhausted 
by war and the rapacity of the Church exercised through 
John Lackland; Italy was a kennel of snarling dogs, where 
each alternately fought, or fawned upon, his neighbour. 

According to one of those forms which the Countess 
declared had its uses she and Bianca were assumed not 
to exist until they had been received by the Emperor, a 
ceremony which must be preceded by Crescenzo’s announce- 
ment of his mission. Therefore for the moment they were 
178 


179 


THE COURT OF THE EMPEROR 

in, but not of, this world which pulsed and throbbed about 
them, a fiction which did not prevent the many curious eyes 
from noting the set of their every tag or bow or ribbon. 
That was human nature — Capua might be the seat of 
empire for the moment, but Rome was eternal, the mistress 
of the world, and here were Romans not five days from the 
newest fashions and follies of the mother city. 

Alvano led them to a broad embrasure set round with 
carved stone seats covered by cushions of down, the whole 
raised two steps above the level of the floor. There were 
others like it in the huge hall, but it alone was vacant; 
without doubt their privacy had been pre-arranged. To 
Bianca it was a wonderland and Ursula di Crescenzo, accus- 
tomed though she was to the courts of the many rulers in 
Italy, courts of culture and refinement, would have quoted 
the Queen of Sheba, The half was not told me, but for 
one reason — she had never so much as heard of her exist- 
ence, and was even a little doubtful whether or not Sulei- 
man was a Saracen Emir. 

For the length and breadth of the room the roof was low, 
and seemed yet lower through an ingenious arrangement 
of polished brass chains in a network supporting scores 
of lamps midway to the ceiling; if some were dark and 
some smoked, the firmanent was none the less a blaze of 
stars. From gilded brackets thrust out from the walls, 
huge candelabra raised their manifold arms, each a point 
of flame; between these, and above them, gods and heroes 
in glimmering white marble looked down their calm specu- 
lation from deep niches; raised on pedestals cressets of 
silver held bowls of aromatic gums, or perfumed woods, 
which smouldered out a sluggish, cloying sweetness on the 
air; between statue and candelabra, or candelabra and 
cresset, folds of ruby-crimson silk hid the harsher naked- 
ness of the walls ; a deep clerestory gave light by day. 

There was no dais, but at one end of the hall two chairs 


180 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


of carved stone were raised slightly above the level of the 
floor; for the moment these were unoccupied. At the 
further end, facing these thrones of state, a low gallery, 
semi-circular in shape and guarded by a stone balustrade, 
was pushed out from the wall. Here were musicians with 
flutes, citoles, dulcimers, trigons, playing softly light, 
rapidly-moving airs very different from the solemn Gregor- 
ian chants with which Bianca was familiar. 

“The Emperor is not here?” 

Alvano shook his head. “Not yet. If he were present 
there would be a lighted lamp on that sconce above the 
thrones. But though His Grace is absent the brain, bone 
and sinew of Sicily and the Empire are here. The measure 
of a State is the greatness of its men, and Sicily is no dwarf. 
Do you see that towering rock of a man with the grizzled 
beard? He is Herman of Salza, Grand Master of the 
Teutonic Knights; beyond him, in the purple vestments, 
his hand on a pedestal, is the Bishop of Ratisbon, further 
is my lord of Bamberg and there, across the floor, is the 
Bishop of Augsburg. If our friend Arsoli has aught to 
say, he must say it in the teeth of equal Church authority.” 

“Germany !” said the great lady in the tone of one who 
did not love Germans, and cared nothing who knew it. 
But Alvano only laughed. 

“They are not all Germans. Look to your right, Excel- 
lency. That is His Grace the Archbishop of Reggio, as 
good an Italian as Arsoli.” 

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes roaming over the moving 
throng with as frank a curiosity as any that stared into 
the embrasure, “but one may speak with the power of the 
Chair.” 

“Then God grant,” he replied soberly, “that the others 
may answer with the divine authority of Justice.” 

“A threat?” she asked tranquilly. 

“By no means, Excellency. In Sicily no one makes 


THE COURT OF THE EMPEROR 181 

threats but the Emperor, and nothing is further from his 
thoughts.” 

“Um,” said she, “but what lies nearest his thoughts? 
That would be more interesting!” Suddenly she laid a 
hand on Alvano’s slashed sleeve, and with the other pointed 
across the hall. “There, who is that?” 

In the ebb and flow an aisle had opened, and in the 
vacant space, clear for an instant, stood the isolated figure 
of a man. From head to foot he was clad in black, the 
sole relief of colour a gold chain thrown in triple folds 
round his neck and falling in graduated loops upon his 
breast; from the lowest of these hung a medallion; had 
Ursula di Crescenzo been near enough, she would have seen 
it was a woman’s face of delicate, spiritual beauty, the face 
of a saint-to-be. His head was bent, his lips moving as if 
in silent prayer or secret communion, oblivious of the 
crowd surrounding him; as he turned Bianca saw the 
symbol of the Crusade, the cross in blue, bound upon his 
arm. Then the aisle closed and he was hidden. 

“I said the brain and strength of the Empire were here,” 
answered Alvano, “that is its very soul. That is Lewis of 
Thuringia, husband to Elizabeth of Hungary, in whose lap 
bread for the poor turned to roses lest her charity should 
be blamed. That was in the Landgrave’s unregenerate 

days; now ” He paused, his gaze passing from 

Ursula di Crescenzo to Bianca. 

“Now?” repeated the Countess. 

“Now it is said there is between them that perfect union 
which knows neither man nor woman, nothing but com- 
munity in thought, aim and purpose.” 

“H’m, that is very well for saints, but in this life we are 
in the body ! He wears the cross ?” 

“For the Crusade.” 

“So there truly is a Crusade!” she said satirically, 
“When will it sail?” 


182 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“His Holiness preaches faith but shows none himself,” 
Alvano’s tone was bitter. “Words, not deeds ; precept, not 
example, that is the Church from cardinal to curate. Live 
chaste, says Montelengo! Have faith, says Gregory!” 

“Yes,” she persisted, “but a black in Rome does not 
make a white in Capua — when does it sail?” 

“At the appointed time. And if you wish a white in 
Capua, there is one,” and Alvano pointed where a man, 
whose snowy burnous was in sharp contrast to his dark 
skin and yet darker beard, walked apart. “That is Sheik 
Hussein, chief of the Arabs from Lucera.” 

“A Saracen and a Pagan!” 

“A loyal subject to Sicily, together with hundreds of his 
faith and feeling. Will his Holiness claim next to decide 
who may, or who may not, serve the Empire?” 

What the Countess, being a woman little given to fenc- 
ing and most intolerant of being fenced, would have replied 
can only be guessed, for Bianca spoke for the first time, 
leaning forward and touching Alvano on the shoulder. 

“Look ! . The lamp is lit ; the Emperor has come.” 

And now that they had leisure to notice they found that 
a change had swept across the thronged hall; the murmur 
of voices and pleasant ripple of laughter had died into 
silence, nor was there any longer an ebb and flow; in the 
gallery the music was subdued to a few quiet chords. 

Erom her vantage height Bianca could see that the 
crowd was divided by an open laneway, beginning at an 
entrance underneath the gallery and extending in a direct 
line to the stone thrones; there the space debouched, leav- 
ing these widely isolated. Up this laneway, unpreceded by 
herald or seneschal, walked Frederick, a slender, pale-faced 
girl at his side. 

“Yolande, the Empress,” breathed Alvano. 

Yolande the Empress ! Agata’s “raw child.” In a sense 
she looked both as she passed on her way to the empty 


THE COURT OE THE EMPEROR 


183 


thrones, a quadruple line of courtiers bowing at either side 
as corn bows and bends before the breeze. From their 
embrasure both women measured her, as women always 
will measure one of their sex who, for some reason, any 
reason, is put in opposition to them; nor, in such a case, 
is the judgment either a just or a considered one. How 
can it be, when the element of self warps it ? 

“H’m,” said Ursula di Crescenzo, “Empress because she 
carried the crown of Jerusalem in her pocket.” 

“A raw child,” said Bianca in her thoughts, and, all 
unconsciously, her hand went up to set in place the lock 
which was not awry. 

It was at that moment that Frederick looked up. Hith- 
erto he had spoken to no one but Yolande nor, following, 
no doubt, the custom of the court, had even appeared to see 
the living walls hedging them in. Now, deliberately, he 
scanned the embrasure. From the Countess, seated, his 
gaze passed quickly to Bianca, standing erect, her head 
thrown back, her face clear in the lamp-light, one arm bare 
to the elbow as her finger-tips moved gently underneath 
the braids of red-browm hair, and he half halted in his slow 
stride. But though recognition leaped to his eyes there 
was no outward sign of recognition ; then he passed on and 
Bianca, turning, found Alvano watching her in troubled 
perplexity. 

Behind the Emperor and Empress followed a short pro- 
cession, headed by two of their suite of more than middle 
age. 

“Raynald, Duke of Spoleto and the Duchess,” said 
Alvano in his whispered voice. “Spoleto will be Regent 
while Frederick is in Palestine. Lewis of Thuringia, who 
follows them, you know; Bamberg you know; Egbert of 
Bamberg is uncle to Elizabeth, the Landgravine. Next is 
the Duke of Bavaria, in Sicily for the Crusade ; the Bishop 
of Angers, in Sicily for the Crusade; Pier della Yigna.” 


184 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“Who is Pier della Vigna?” 

“A burgher of Capua and His Grace’s right hand.” 

“In Rome they told us Luca Alvano was that !” 

Alvano laughed. “An Emperor has need of more right 
hands than one.” 

“That he may climb the higher ?” 

“Pardon, Excellency,” he answered, sobering, “but the 
Emperor is the Emperor ; my master can climb no higher.” 

“But he may have need to cling ! The greater the height 
the greater the fall !” 

“A threat ?” he asked, quoting his own words. 

“By no means,” she answered him out of his own mouth, 
then added, “Crescenzo is a friend.” 

“But Gregory an enemy! Countess, my master has 
truly need of many hands.” 

Ursula di Crescenzo relapsed into the terrible directness 
of speech at times characteristic of her, “H’m, an ape, like 
Montelengo !” On the whole she was not dissatisfied with 
the result of her probing. There would be a Crusade, else 
there was no need to name Spoleto Regent, but when would 
it sail? 

With the Emperor and Empress seated, and their imme- 
diate attendants ranged in a curved line extending behind 
the thrones, the formalities which the Countess had spoken 
of began. Frederick raised his hand; instantly the music 
ceased in the gallery and a trumpet blared. While the 
echoes of its single call were still flying, a door at the lower 
end of the hall was opened and two pages entered. They 
were in the Imperial livery, and not Frederick himself had 
seemed more oblivious of the onlookers lining their ap- 
proach. While still three paces distant from the thrones 
they went down upon their knees. 

“An embassay from His Holiness, Pope Gregory the 
Ninth, your Highness.” 

“Admit them.” Frederick’s tone was curt, expression- 


THE COURT OF THE EMPEROR 


185 


less, and so low-pitched that it scarcely reached the listeners 
in the embrasure. 

Rising, the pages retired, and the quiet which had pos- 
sessed the vast hall broke up in murmur, only to be silenced 
almost immediately by the return of the pages. Behind 
them walked Crescenzo, the bishop by his side, and a small 
retinue of officers following; Arsoli’s chaplain was at his 
patron’s heels. 

Gregory and Rome had reason to be proud of their 
envoy, and Ursula di Crescenzo, wife and lover, hardened 
though she was to forms and pageants, found a dimness of 
smiling tears in her eyes as she watched the tall figure of 
her husband, bronzed of face, grizzled of beard, straight as 
a knight’s lance, pass grave-mouthed through the curious 
onlookers, doubtful friends all, possible enemies most. 

This time, not having the common folk to dazzle and 
impress, Crescenzo had eschewed all show in his dress, but 
on his heels were the gold spurs of his order, at his side 
the blazoned hilt of a sword of honour, and on his breast 
the badge of the Military Knights of St. John of Jerusa- 
lem. Arsoli, for his part, was clad in the most splendid robes 
his high office in the Church provided. 

“Marco, the most noble Count of Crescenzo, Lord of 
Narnone, Pietrala and Sovanella, Knight of Saint John, 
Envoy Extraordinary of His Holiness, Pope Gregory the 
Ninth,” cried the elder of the two pages in a clear voice; 
then they stepped one to each side and Crescenzo and Arsoli 
passed on between. 

At the announcement Frederick had risen, and now, 
from the advantage of a shallow but broad step, looked 
down on the Romans. His open left hand rested on his hip, 
with the other he emphasized his words, southern fashion, 
though his voice was quiet to soberness. 

“Gregory the Ninth!” he repeated. “The Lord has 
taken away and the Lord has given, blessed be the name of 


186 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

the Lord! But I anticipate your pronouncement, Count 
Marco/’ 

Crescenzo’s voice was very clear and deliberate as he 
answered. 

“It having pleased Almighty God to take unto Himself 
our Holy Father, Honorius, I am commissioned to inform 
your Grace that Ugolino Conti, Bishop of Ostia, Cardinal 
of San Eusebius, being called by the Spirit of God to the 
Headship of the Church has obeyed the divine command, 
humbly conscious of his own insufficiency for so great an 
office, but relying on the prayers of all faithful people for 
strength, comfort, support and wisdom in its maintenance. 
His Holiness has assumed the name and title of Gregory 
the Ninth, and in the fulness of his warm, paternal love 
has charged me to deliver this letter to your Grace, whom 
he hails as a dear and well-beloved, trusted son.” 

Drawing an oblong parchment from a pouch at his belt 
Crescenzo went down on one knee and presented it to the 
Emperor. Stooping, Frederick received it with both hands, 
turned it over so that the many seals were uppermost, kissed 
the impress of the Papal badge, the dove, upon them, and 
handed the letter to Pier della Yigna, who stood behind his 
throne. Della Yigna kissed it in turn with every evidence 
of profound respect, and opening his doublet laid the 
parchment against his breast then he stepped back. 

“H’m!” said Ursula di Crescenzo, “if I know anything 
of Gregory that should scorch him to the bone !” 

“The Pax Vaticana” said Alvano bitterly. 

^What is that?” 

“Peace, peace — when there is no peace!” 

But the Emperor was speaking. “Lord Count, it is 
God’s mercy to His Church and her glory that her lamp is 
unquenchable. Not even the shadows of death, which 
plunge our lower lives into darkness, can dim her radiance. 
From the relaxed hand of Honorius the Spirit of Life has 


THE COURT OF THE EMPEROR 187 

passed the torch of eternal truth to the firm grasp of Greg- 
ory, and to a Father in God a Father in God succeeds. 

“For Honorius our grief is too raw for speech. All 
Sicily mourns for him with mourning Rome. But even in 
her grief she takes comfort when she remembers the learn- 
ing, the lofty thought, the devout piety, the pure and noble 
spirit of him who now sits in Saint Peter’s chair. In the 
glorious galaxy of the Church Ugolino Conti has long shone 
as a brilliant star. To natural wisdom is added in him the 
ripe experience of age. Both, we are confident, will illumine 
the mind of His Holiness, revealing to his paternal heart 
the true and urgent needs of those who call him Father ! 
As Vicar of the Prince of Peace the love of peace must be 
deep seated in his breast. Count di Crescenzo, you will 
assure His Holiness that nowhere in Christendom beats a 
warmer affection than in the heart of his children of Sicily. 
When we have read his gracious letter we shall reply in a 
fitting manner. Count Marco, and you, Lord Bishop, 
Sicily welcomes you with both hands. For myself, I count 
it gratefully as a sign of His Holiness’ favour that he has 
entrusted this mission to such honohred names.” 

As Frederick ended Arsoli strode forward a step, his 
right hand raised. Most bitterly he resented the inferior 
position into which he found himself thrust. It was a slight 
not alone to himself but to the Church at large that a lay- 
man should take such precedence, and the dignity of both 
required that he should assert his office. 

“Let it not be forgotten,” he said loudly, his voice harsh 
and rasping in his ill-suppressed passion, “that it is at all 
times the right and duty of a father to admonish — aye, and 
if need be to punish where there is slackness or disobedi- 
ence.” 

Instantly the hall was in an uproar, a clamour of angry 
voices rising even to the doors. With the one impulse 
Spoleto and the Duke of Bavaria broke the line that half 


188 


GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


surrounded Frederick as if to avenge the insult to their 
Emperor. In the embrasure Alvano started forward, and 
but for Ursula di Crescenzo’s restraining hand would have 
forced his way into the crowd packing ever more thickly 
round Arsoli. 

But Frederick motioned for silence. “Do not press 
unduly on the guests of Sicily !” he cried ; then, to Arsoli, 
“Do you speak that of yourself, Lord Bishop, or have you 
a special message of our Holy Father’s love and affection 
to deliver?” 

For a moment Arsoli hesitated. They were Gregory’s 
own thoughts, Gregory’s own words, but not spoken by 
Gregory’s orders. For the threat of those about him, a 
threat naked and imminent, the bishop cared not a jot. 
His was the spirit that if need be could endure, as well as 
inflict, martyrdom; but Gregory might disavow his bold- 
ness as, possibly, premature. Therefore he temporized. 

“All the world knows the duty of the Church.” 

“But the Emperor is not all the world,” retorted Fred- 
erick, “he is only the most of it, or, if not he, then the 
Empire.” Allowing no time for reply he turned to the 
Empress. “My heart, I commend to your high regard our 
good late enemy and better present friend. Count Mark of 
(Crescenzo; of His Grandeur it ill befits me to speak who 
have been, but against my will, a man of war while he is a 
man of peace. Count Marco, I understand, has brought 
a second welcome with him; let us go together and find 
her.” 

Eising, Yolande — looking more than ever the raw girl 
* — took the hand Frederick held out to her, and side by 
side, with Crescenzo at the Empress’s left, they made their 
way to the embrasure. Of what followed Bianca retained 
no very clear recollection. That Frederick had spoken 
some courteous words of formal welcome she knew, also she 
knew that the Empress had spoken no welcome at all, only 


THE COURT OF THE EMPEROR 


189 


stared at her with the large eyes of a curious, uncertain- 
tempered child; but whether she had replied, or how she 
had replied, was lost in the whirl of her confused brain, 
unaccustomed to such scenes. 

When she came to herself she was one of the many guests 
on the floor of the great hall, Alvano was at her elbow, 
Crescenzo and the Empress two paces ahead of them fol- 
lowing Frederick and the Countess : all were talking gaily 
except Yolande, who was dumb. Alvano was saying : 

“Where did you learn perfection, Cousin Bianca ? And 
if you still seek cousinships in Sicily, you will find scores 
claiming the privilege after to-night.” 

“Perfection?” she repeated, glancing up into his face 
only to look down again as their eyes met, and add hastily, 
“Cousins ! I think I have made an end of seeking cousins : 
there are times when my heart grows sick for Malazzorbo.” 

A blare of trumpets announcing that the Emperor was 
served prevented Alvano from enquiring what she meant; 
nor, later, as he sat beside her at supper, with Frederick 
opposite and a row of notables to right and left, was 
enquiry possible. By those interested in such trivialities 
it was noted that the Emperor was as courteously con- 
descending to the unknown girl who faced him across the 
table as to the wife of Gregory’s ambassador, sitting at his 
right hand; nor this time, was Bianca confused in her 
replies. 


CHAPTER XXI 


The Splendid Dream 

“I am sick of shadows!” and Frederick made a wide 
southern gesture of protest with both arms as he halted in 
his impatient stride. “Luca, my friend, is there nothing 
real in this world of hollow pretences we are forced to 
live in?” 

“The love of many tens of thousands who would gladly 
die- ” 

“Oh, do not think I doubt that ! If I doubted the love 
of my people I would pray for the peace of Grandsire 
Barbarossa’s unknown grave. But here is this leathern- 
hearted old man — d’you think, Alvano, that hearts wrinkle 
and shrivel with age as the cheeks do at times? If so, 
God keep me young! But here is this Gregory, not yet 
warm in Saint Peter’s chair, speaking peace through the 
mouth of Crescenzo, while Arsoli ” 

“Arsoli is no shadow !” said Alvano as Frederick paused. 

“Nor is Crescenzo. Crecenzo is honest, Arsoli is honest, 
but this Gregory — you were in Rome, Luca; tell me what 
Rome thinks of its Pope.” 

It was the night of the banquet, and Alvano was alone 
with his Imperial master for the first time since his return 
to Capua. Frederick had prolonged his wolf hunt until 
late in the afternoon, then had come the arrangements for 
the reception of the Papal Embassy; now they were in the 
most secluded of the Emperor’s private apartments, where 
none were admitted except those with whom he could throw 
aside the burden of greatness, and speak his thoughts freely 
as man to man. 


190 


THE SPLENDID DREAM 


191 


Here there was no sign to be seen of the luxury the 
Emperor loved to surround himself with in his leisure 
hours, but if there was a Spartan plainness there was also 
something suggestive of the Greek in the classic and severe 
beauty of the appointments. 

“What does Rome think?” repeated Alvano. “Your 
Grace, four-fifths of Rome never thinks for itself. Honorius 
dies, and Gregory, in Honorius’s place, thinks shows, spec- 
tacles and largesse, and Rome shouts for him as it would 
shout itself hoarse for Pandone, Montelengo or Colonna, if 
they could think the same thoughts. Presently there will 
come a change. Gregory will think the thoughts of the 
grey old wolf he is, and some demagogue will think Rome 
has had enough of him; then Rome will shout for the 
demagogue.” 

“And the other fifth?” 

“So much of it as is the Church says, We have a Pope 
of fourscore, let us look forward ; as for the great families, 
they are afraid. But for Honorius Cardinal Ugolino Conti 
would have whipped them with whips, now Gregory may 
whip them with scorpions ; or, if that is impossible, he may 
squeeze them as he would an orange, not for his own 
profit, but to the greater glory of the Church.” 

“And Frangipani waits quietly for his whipping ?” 

“For a price to be arranged Frangipani will transfer to 
Your Grace all his estates, all his strongholds in Rome, and 
receive them back again as a fief from the Empire.’' 

“Frangipani will? Then by the Splendour of God, let 
Gregory see to it, that he lays no finger on a vassal of 
the Empire !” cried Frederick, the blood flushing his ruddy 
skin as with a glow of fire. “‘The father to admonish 
— to punish if need be/ said Arsoli with a sneer that 
was a threat. Alvano, there is no room in Italy for two 
such men as Gregory and Frederick! The world has no 
such intolerance as the intolerance of arrogant old age fed 


192 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


upon tradition ! Admonish ? Already he has presumed to 
admonish !” 

“Then his letter •” began Alvano. 

“Gall and honey smeared with a glove of steel, and 
even the honey had a sting in it ! Admonish ? Aye ! He 
would admonish Sicily as Rome admonished Toulouse and 
England, stirring up insurrection that the Holy See might 
suck the fat of the land! But Gregory is fourscore, and 
the Church looks forward ? Yes, and so must we. Gregory 
will pass, another will follow, and then in ten years the 
time will be ripe for you. You in Rome, I in Palermo! 
What shall we not make of our Italy — Lombardy, Venice, 
Florence, Milan, Romagna! The greatness of the first 
Caesars, and the culture of Greece! A United Kingdom 
splendid with the glory of a Golden Age ! Alvano, Alvano, 
it will be the greatest thing in the world l” 

But Alvano’s enthusiasm did not kindle as it once had 
kindled at the splendid dream. His face, rather, was 
almost heavy with melancholy as he stood by the angle of 
the gaping fire place, now empty, looking not at Frederick 
but at the Persian rug beneath his feet. 

“Frangipani says there never can be a Ghibeline Pope — 
a Pope who can support the Emperor.” 

“Frangipani does not understand. In ten years time, 
fifteen if necessary — in fifteen years you will be little more 
than forty, I not yet fifty; you will be Cardinal Alvano, 
the one man in the Conclave who can bring peace to both 
Rome and the Empire.” 

“It is your Highness who does not understand. Frangi- 
pani means that an Imperial Pope is a self-contradiction — 
a black-white; plainly, he means the Pope must always be 
the enemy of the Empire, their ideals and their ambitions 
are different.” 

“But not ours; we see eye to eye and are brother and 
brother.” He paused, concern clouding his face, and laid 


193 


THE SPLENDID DREAM 

a hand on Alvano’s shoulder. “Luca, what has changed 
you ? A month ago you were all fire, now you are — 
no, not ice, but dead ash. And yet this was your own 
thought — that you should enter the Church and, backed in 
secret by all the forces of the Empire, rise to the Cardi- 
nalate, and then, skilfully setting faction against faction, 
interest against interest, climb to the highest seat of all 
that you and I, the Church and the Empire, working to- 
gether, should bring peace and power to Italy, such peace 
and power as can only come by union. Is the dream less 
splendid than it was ? The good to Italy less real ? Luca, 
Luca, what has changed you — cooled you?” 

Not even at the ring of passion, with its hint of pleading 
in the voice, did Alvano look up. “No change, Your 
Grace; but you have used the right word — it was all a 
dream. Frangipani •” 

“There’s more than a chance word from Frangipani in 
this !” Letting his hand fall to his side Frederick turned 
away, but halted abruptly. “I think I see what it is — 
Rome has daunted you, Rome with its thousand altars, 
Rome with its high religious mystery and pomp of solemn 
ceremonial. You have no vocation — I know your high 
nature, Alvano ; Rome has taught you that to touch sacred 
things without vocation is to profane them: yes, I think 
I understand. Ah, my friend, be not religious overmuch! 
Vocation? Has Montelengo a vocation? Look out across 
the priesthood, north, south, east, west, how many voca- 
tions from the highest to the lowest? And all, Cardinal, 
bishop, presbyter or deacon, are where they are — for 
what? For bread or power, while you — Luca, Luca, I 
say again, be not righteous overmuch; you at least would 
live clean and judge righteous judgment; you would 
bring peace to your nation, peace to the world ; you would 
raise brotherhood and love to their true place in the 
eyes of the people and draw the hearts of all men to the 


194 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Church. Does a man not serve God in serving his people ? 
Fling away your doubts; for a scruple would you sacrifice 
Italy ?” 

Before Frederick ended the passion and the pleading 
had done their work. Alvano, his chin lifted, his eyes 
alight, his breath quickened, was quivering responsive as an 
feolian harp quivers responsive to the wind sweeping over 
its chords. 

“Vocation? Surely the saving of a people, the building 
up of a nation, is vocation enough? Heart and soul I 

believe it! But there in Rome ” Being an honest 

man, too honest for an Emperor’s right hand, he paused, 
and the light in his eyes dulled as he remembered not only 
Rome but Ferentino, and a woman’s face with brown-red 
hair blown about its beauty by the cool wind across Monte 
Malaina. It meant more to him than he had thought. 
“I do not love priests,” he ended lamely. 

But this time the Emperor was not chilled to protesta- 
tion; rather, a sympathetic note had been struck. Neither 
had Frederick any great love for priests, or, at least, not for 
priest-craft — which is a very different thing. 

“I think I understand,” he said for the second time. 
“But Luca Alvano is no Montelengo — if he were there 
would be an end to our dream. Women do not call aloud 
to you as they do to Montelengo, and since there is no one 
woman — ?” He paused on the affirmative interrogation. 

“No,” said Alvano soberly, almost harshly, “no, there 
is no one woman.” 

“And with you it is only the one woman who could 
count. But you do not like the priesting ? No! Nothing 
but a vocation or a great sorrow can justify the priesting of 
any man. For the present leave the priesting aside. If it 
were not for custom and prejudice I would say leave it 
aside altogether, since there is no law of the Church that a 
man must be a priest to be Pope. Yes, the priesting can 


THE SPLENDID DREAM 195 

wait, nor is there need to speak at all of it. Let ns talk of 
Rome. How did you pass your leisure ?” 

“Chiefly in the churches. A man does not need a voca- 
tion to be moved to awe in the churches of Rome. There 
was one above others. It is beyond the walls, Your Grace : 
they call it the Vigil Church. It is there, one of several, 
that postulants pass their last night before ordination — 
it moved me greatly.” 

“Um !” said Frederick, perplexed by this shift of 
thought, “what church was that?” 

“San Tommaso, they call it.” 

“Um !” said Frederick again, “the apostle of doubt ?” 

Both fell silent. The one thought dominant in Freder- 
ick’s mind was that in Rome Alvano had been flung 
sharply in contact with forces repellent to him, forces the 
Emperor did not pause to define clearly. It was enough 
that they had been found sufficiently repugnant to dull 
enthusiasm and compel doubt. In such a case to fence de- 
cision and gain time was essential — with time the impres- 
sion born of the Roman atmosphere would weaken, with 
time and prejudice fanning the flame of enthusiasm, now 
flickering doubtfully, would blaze again as at the first: a 
generous sentiment might draw Luca Alvano, no spur 
would ever drive him. 

Alvano’s thoughts were more complex, more confused. 
Already the generous sentiment drew him as at the first, 
but against it there tugged a force which had not then 
existed, a force none the less masterful for being ill-defined 
and not openly admitted. In part Frederick had himself 
suggested its existence. There is no one woman? he had 
said; and Alvano, in entire honesty, had replied, No, there 
is no one woman. The truth was he had never asked him- 
self the question: and now the question, as is the way of 
such questions, asked itself. 

The misfortune was that he had no answer ready. If 


196 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


he could have told himself, No! with calm assurance, he 
would have brushed aside the Emperor’s difficulties as of no 
weight : and, just as surely, if the answer had been a clear 

Yes! he There he broke off, since it is evident that 

his course would not have depended on himself alone : had 
not the Emperor said that great sorrow was in itself a 
vocation ? And might not that great sorrow come through 
the one woman, since it is the one woman who brings to 
a man the great sorrow or the great joy of life ? 

But through the unreadiness one thing he knew — a face 
was always present to his memory, the same face but with 
subtle differences : now as first seen in the atrium , now as 
they confronted the Roman mob, her hand upon his 
shoulder ; now with a light in the eyes as when he rode up 
to the litter beyond the walls, or as at Eerentino, or again 
that night in the great hall. 

It was Frederick who broke the silence. 

“Gregory is four-score and the Church looks forward,” 
he repeated for the second time. “Upon whom do her 
eyes turn?” 

“Pandone hopes upon — Pandone.” 

“Pandone ?” The Emperor paused a moment in 
thought. “No, no; that must be checked. Pandone is too 
young.” Again he paused, his eyes searching Alvano’s face 
an instant. “Pandone? Crescenzo’s ward is a Pandone. 
Why is she in Sicily ?” 

“She is seeking her mother’s relatives: her mother was 
a Caldora as I am a Caldora.” 

“I see: a cousin, far removed? I remember now; you 
told me so this forenoon. A lovely face, Luca; I doubt if 
there is a lovelier in Capua.” Alvano stirred uneasily but 
made no reply, and after the briefest of halts Frederick 
continued, “A Pandone and a cousin? Let us be frank, 
do you favor Pandone because of the cousinship ?” 

“Pandone? Not I, Your Grace.” Alvano’s warm vigour 


THE SPLENDID DREAM 


197 


of sincerity was unmistakable. “I distrust the man — dis- 
trust him utterly. Plausible and smooth-spoken though 
the Cardinal is I think Gregory is the more honest.” 

“And yet he sends Crescenzo to say one thing and Arsoli 
another,” commented Frederick drily. “But let that pass. 
Your cousin, is she Roman-born? I think not?” 

“No, your Grace,” and very briefly Alvano told the story 
of Malazzorbo, not omitting its tragedy. Pacing slowly up 
and down the room the Emperor listened without interrup- 
tion ; then he said, 

“She can have no great love for the Church?” 

“No, Your Grace, she frankly admits it.” 

“And after less than three weeks of Rome she comes 
south to seek her cousins ?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

“I see. With such a memory haunting her Rome would 
naturally be distasteful,” said Frederick, and plunged into 
the history of the weeks which had passed while Alvano 
was out of Sicily. 

But in the secret of his own thoughts he told himself he 
guessed what lay behind the pretence of cousinship which 
had brought Bianca Pandone to Capua. Gregory was very 
old, her uncle, the Cardinal, looked forward — there might 
come a time when the goodwill of the Emperor might turn 
the scale in his favour. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Gardens of Paradise 

Bianca's stay in Rome had been of too short a duration 
to unlearn the country habit of a lifetime. Accustomed 
to wake with the dawn, her healthy energy refused to lie 
slug-a-bed, and it was Agata's grievance that if she wished 
to assist her mistress in her dressing she had to bestir her- 
self early. That she so bestirred herself was by no desire 
of Bianca, but for reasons of her own the tire-woman lost 
her sleep, though grumblingly. Hot even the morning after 
the arrival at Capua did she neglect her duties. 

“Was I not right :.?” she said, triumphant complacency 
in her voice, as she lent Bianca an unwelcome aid. “There 
is a collar of pearls — what a fine figure of a man His Emi- 
nence is, he must love you very dearly — but it was not for 
last night. I was in the gallery, hidden in the shadows, 
and saw how the signorina drew all their eyes. I said there 
was not a Sicilian who could stand beside you, and there 
was not. That there were no jewels was a stroke of genius. 
All men like women to be demure at the first, afterwards — •” 
she paused with a little outward shrugging gesture of her 
hands, “afterwards? That depends on the man.” 

“All that matters nothing to me,” said Bianca, vexed 
at the growing familiarity she found herself impotent to 
curb, “nor do I intend to wear the pearls you speak of.” 

“This morning, signorina ? Why, of course not ! This 
morning — let me see,” again she paused, looking her mis- 
tress up and down with shrewd, appraising eyes that seemed 
to see not the Bianca before her but the Bianca who would 
198 


199 


GARDENS OF PARADISE 

be when her art had beautified her. “Yes, yes,” she went 
on, nodding her head briskly, “the white linen that comes 
high up on the throat: not that you, signorina, have any 
need to hide your throat, but it is wisest for the present.” 

Again Bianca was stricken dumb. She would have liked 
to interpose a flat No to the tire- woman’s choice, but of 
all the dresses Emilia’s loving care had provided the white 
linen was the simplest and the one she would have herself 
selected. 

“Yes,” went on Agata, her tongue as busy as her hands, 
“and was I not right when I said the Empress was a raw 
girl ? To see her last night by the side of my lord count ! 
Not a word in her mouth and, I’ll wager, not a thought in 
her head. A pretty head — I would be a fool to gainsay it — 
but after six months men weary of just prettiness, and the 
Emperor is a man if ever there was one.” 

“Agata,” said Bianca sharply, “you must not say such 
things to me of the Emperor and Empress.” 

‘‘Why not, signorina, since they are true and all the 
palace says them?” She stepped back, her eyes keenly 
vigilant as she judged the results of her labours, “Yes, that 
will do — all white except for this crimson ribbon at the 
waist. Some would add a bow at the throat, but not I: 
it would draw the eyes from the face. Signorina, take my 
advice, wear no headgear when you go out into the garden 
presently. You need none; Capua is not the Marches; no, 
nor even Rome, and the air is warm these early April 
mornings.” 

“The garden ? What garden ?” 

For reply Agata threw up her hands in protest. “Sig- 
norina, have you never heard of the gardens of Capua? 
They say that His Highness, who does nothing by halves, 
has made them like paradise. And this is the very hour for 
seeing them at your leisure. There’s no one astir but the 
guard, and if I know anything of gardens the sweet of the 


300 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

morning, before the sun is hot, and when all the dew’s 
a-sparkle, is the hour God made for enjoying them.” 

Hesitating, Bianca looked about her. There was much 
to attract in Agata’s suggestion. The room, though 
luxurious, was dull : but little light came through the win- 
dows, wider than those of Rome or Malazzorbo, but yet 
narrow for the space they illuminated. The sun was no 
more than newly risen, not for two hours would Ursula 
di Crescenzo follow his example, while, to judge by Agata’s 
movements the maid had more than two hours’ employment 
for her clever hands. Two hours of the unpleasant tongue 
she could not silence ? That would be hard to endure ; to 
lie slug-a-bed, awake with her own thoughts, were better 
than that ! 

Also, Agata had stirred her curiosity, and more than her 
curiosity. Bianca loved a garden, as all must who have 
any spiritual kinship with the days before “Man’s first 
disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree, whose 
mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
with loss of Eden.” And while she halted between two 
opinions Agata settled the question for her in her dominant 
but not domineering way. 

“Come, signorina,” she said briskly, “I will show you 
the road, it would be easy to get lost in this great house ;” 
and throwing open the door quietly, she waited for Bianca 
to precede her. 

The palace — not altogether a palace, for whoso built a 
palace in those turbulent days built also a fortress, and 
not infrequently a prison — was very still. The thick walls 
which had dulled the morning light dulled also the sounds 
of outer life and, as Agata had said, within doors there was 
as yet but little movement. The very stillness lent Bianca 
decision, and without remonstrance she followed her tire- 
woman, now passing rapidly, but with obvious carefulness, 
in front of the Crescenzo apartments. 


GARDENS OF PARADISE 


201 


The broad stairway of Sicilian marble was void, void 
the lower corridors whose mouths they passed in their 
descent, and void, except for men-at-arms about the now 
open doors, and wide vaulted atrium with its fluted Doric 
pillars. Later in the day its mosaic pavement would ring 
under the spurred tread of Knights of the Empire, its nave 
and flanking aisles be filled by courtiers and officers of 
State; men of the East, men of the West; Moslems, Jews, 
Christians ; poets and philosophers, men of science and men 
of the sword; but for the moment it was tenantless. 

Like one who knew her way without guidance, and 
Bianca marvelled at her unhesitating assurance, Agata 
turned under an arch, through which drifted far-off mur- 
murous sounds of life, traversed a minor hall, chose a cor- 
ridor on the left and led the way out upon a flight of marble 
steps that, fan-wise, gave entrance to a stretch of greenery, 
illimitable greenery, between whose shadows a brawling 
stream, hastening to lose itself in the greater volume of the 
Yolturno, flashed and glittered. 

Obedient always to her own sufficient reasons the tire- 
woman made no delay. 

“Already you can smell the spices,” she said, drawing 
a deep breath, of satisfaction. “For those who are wise, 
signorina, the gardens of Capua may well be paradise,” 
then waiting for no reply, she re-entered the palace and 
disappeared. 

The spices? Yes, Bianca could smell the spices. The 
air was very still. Upon herbage, and the spring-born green 
life pushing up from the brown earth, the dew gleamed 
and glistened, all a-sparkle, as Agata had said; on the 
marble terraces to right and left it lay in coalesced pools, 
or great swollen drops rapidly shrinking in the mild 
warmth of the sun. Through the solemn darkness of the 
night the world had been made afresh, and something of 
the pure glory of the Fatherland still clung to it. 


202 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Bianca had known many dawns but never one like this* 
never one with such an incense of warm perfume abroad 
upon the air. The musk of early roses was in its breath — 
roses she knew of old, but here was an airy essence subtler 
and more penetrating. Drawn by the sweetness she passed 
slowly down the steps, filling deeply her lungs as Agata 
had done, and joyously conscious of the good of life. Flecks 
of high colour gleaming from a restful depth of broad- 
leaved verdancy caught her gaze. Moved by curiosity she 
went nearer, and with every step the cloying sweetness in 
the air grew heavier, mounting to her brain like fumes of 
wine. Then she recognized the golden globes she had seen 
at supper last night for the first time and, miracle of mira- 
cles! there was not alone fruit ripe for the plucking, but 
flower in prodigal abundance, waxen, pure and perfect, in- 
toxicating the soft air with perfume : Agata had spoken the 
truth, Capua’s gardens were gardens of paradise. 

From the orange grove Bianca wandered deeper into the 
wooded pleasaunce. Here was yet another new world, a 
world for whose making not Sicily alone but Egypt, Pales- 
tine and Byzantium had been ransacked. It was no wonder, 
therefore, that the new world was a strange world, with 
a revelation at almost every step. And yet there were old 
friends to welcome her, else even paradise would hardly be 
paradise. The pomegranate she knew, though not with 
the riotous luxuriance of Capua ; the Madonna lilies in the 
making she also knew, but not their more slender sisters 
which would blossom presently into the scarlet lily of 
Greece. Sowbread lay thick in the shade: in sun-steeped 
spots palms lifted their tufted heads, well content ; almonds 
were past their bloom, the tender green pushing out 
strongly on the naked boughs, but apricots were a pink 
cloud against the clear blue of the sky: purple flags were 
already in colour where sun and shelter gave them heart. 
The Star of Bethlehem had long done with flowering, even 


GAEDENS OF PAEADISE 203 

in the shade, but the Byzantine sword-lily held its tapering 
flame as yet unsheathed. 

Loitering yet further, finding new fascinations as she 
wandered, Bianca, had she but known it, stayed her steps 
by a pool that was pure Egypt. In the centre, broad and 
spreading, floated the blue lotus, flowerless as yet; from 
the shallows sprang the huge foliage of giant caladiums 
intermixed with the tufted papyrus reed, as luxuriant as 
in its native waters; while, half within the pool and half 
without, wide stretches of Nile lily bloomed white and 
virginal. . 

Near by, on an open slope remote from shade, stood a 
sundial, but as Bianca paused to read its message, 

“God made the hours 
For more than flowers; 

Begone about your business.” 

she was conscious of the sound of voices, or rather of a 
single voice raised in protest, and growing nearer with 
every second. Then the Emperor and Pier della Yigna 
passed from the shadows to the sunlight. It was Frederick 
who spoke. 

“You have read his letter? Bead you ever such 
another ? By the Splendour of God, I will have His Holi- 
ness understand that — I am the first son of the Church.” 

If there had been a break in the out-pouring of angry 
words as Frederick caught sight of the white-clad figure by 
the sundial, it would have taxed a calmer brain than 
Bianca’s to have detected the changed ending ; but being a 
woman quick in her intuitions she understood the sudden 
gesture which dismissed Yigna, and left her alone with the 
Emperor. What was the message of the dial — Begone about 
your business? Her business in Capua was to discover if 
the Crusade would sail. After a deep reverence she went 
forward to meet the Emperor. 


204 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Signorina Pandone! For a moment I thought a god- 
dess of the woods, from the fine old pagan faith, had come 
to life.” 

“Your Highness,” she answered, “how shall I excuse 
myself for this intrusion? But indeed I am not to blame. 
They told me that at this hour the gardens were always 
free.” 

“They? Who are they?” asked Frederick. 

His grey eyes were smiling, but behind the smile was a 
watchfulness which studied and approved the tall, straight 
figure still three yards away. On level ground he over- 
topped her in height but the rise of the slope levelled the 
inequality. That was one point in her favour; Frederick 
liked women to be tall but not so tall as to dwarf his own 
height. A weakness? If great men had no weaknesses 
they would almost cease to be men. He approved, too, the 
simplicity of her white dress with its single touch of colour ; 
then the warm light of the sun, shining through her un- 
covered red-brown hair, drew his eyes, and he approved 
yet more — Agata’s wisdom was justified. But even while 
he approved he remembered she was a Pandone, and in 
Sicily for a doubtful purpose. 

“Who are they?” he repeated more curtly, climbing the 
slope as he spoke. 

“It was my tire-woman ” 

“A stranger? That explains it. All the palace knows 
this is my hour in the gardens.” 

It was more than the hint of censure, drily given, that 
sent the blood rushing in red shame to Bianca’s face. In 
the same instant she divined that for a set purpose Agata 
had played cunningly upon her ignorance. All the palace 
knew, said Frederick, and the waiting-woman, who knew 
the turns and twists of the corridors so well, was not the 
one to miss a gossip of her fellow maids. What the 
purpose was Bianca had no leisure to analyse, but the 


GARDENS OE PARADISE 


205 


woman’s last words flashed into her memory with a new 
significance, For those who are wise the gardens of Capna 
may well be Paradise. 

“Your Grace, Your Grace,” she cried, almost in tears, 
“I never dreamed it was an intrusion. At this hour I 
thought ” 

“No intrusion: put that from you, once and for all.” 
At the pain in the girl’s voice Frederick’s suspicions van- 
ished; it was too poignant for pretence; clearly she was 
innocent of any pre-arranged intention to waylay him. 
Then he remembered that Pandone was amongst those in 
the Church who looked forward; this chance meeting, free 
from interruption, might have its advantages. “I think 
my good friend, the Cardinal of San Marco del Monte, is 
your uncle?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

“Rut you are not all Roman ? A cousin of Luca Alvano’s 
must have some love to spare for Sicily?” 

“But I know so little of Sicily,” she stammered. Slowly 
she was regaining self-control; the very mention of Pan- 
done’s name had braced her to caution. 

“We must mend that. To know Sicily is to love her. 
That is my one quarrel with Rome, it does not know Sicily. 
You, no doubt, have lived in Rome with the Cardinal since 
your mother died — four years ago?” 

It flashed into Bianca’s mind that if the Emperor knew 
her mother had died four years before he must also know 
that she had not lived these four years in Rome. There- 
fore he was fencing her, and with the knowledge she grew 
bolder, as strong natures will in the face of a known adver- 
sary. 

“No, Your Grace, I lived on at Malazzorbo, where we 
were very poor. Then a month ago my uncle remembered 
me and sent for me to Rome.” 


206 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“Only a month ago? And now yon are in Sicily?” 

Bianca laughed. She was now entirely mistress of her 
powers and unafraid of any unwary self-betrayal. “Oh, 
Your Grace, have you not heard that women are a law 
to themselves? And is there not a proverb that eating 
strengthens hunger? At Malazzorbo I starved, my uncle 
fed me with Rome, and ” 

“Now you would devour Sicily? Truly a robust 
appetite! And what had the Cardinal to say to such a 
hunger ?” 

“Your Grace, I owed the Cardinal nothing. Women do 
not like to be forgotten; it is the one offence hard to for- 
give. My uncle should have sent for me sooner or left me 
in peace at Malazzorbo.” 

“But you mistake,” said Frederick, his grey eyes smiling 
anew as he probed deeper. “The Cardinal had not for- 
gotten ; it was just that he had never seen you : had he seen 
you he could not have forgotten.” 

Bianca let the flattery, direct though it was, pass her by 
as if unheard. “Oh, Your Grace,” she answered scornfully, 
“blood should never forget.” 

Frederick laughed but without mirth. None knew better 
than he how easily blood forgot. “If Malazzorbo taught 
you that, then go back to Malazzorbo and keep your faith, 
lest in the great world you find that the nearer the blood 
the shorter the memory.” 

He paused a moment, his eyes on the passionate face. 
As beauty in a picture where the artist’s genius has caught 
the soul of eternal things, beauty in the blue of the sea, 
sun-steeped and wind-swept to foaming rollers, beauty in 
a wide-flung landscape, hill, valley and plain, olive-yard, 
wheat land and pasture may thrill a man’s heart, so beauty 
in a woman thrilled Frederick’s, moving at times his baser 
nature but never to vileness. Thrice they had met, these 
two, and each meeting he had approved some new quality. 


GARDENS OF PARADISE 207 

Now it was that hint of latent force which lent something 
of a man’s strength to her womanly charm. 

“Go back to Malazzorbo?” he repeated, nor had the 
pause been long. “No ! You can do better than lose your- 
self in Malazzorbo, dreaming of blood brotherhood the 
world forgets ; you can learn to love Sicily and then teach 
Rome to love her also.” 

“Teach Rome?” she stammered, confused a second time 
but from a different cause, “how can I teach Rome ?” 

“You are a Pandone; has Giordano Pandone climbed 
his highest ? Above the greatness of the Cardinal there is 
a greater greatness. You owe it to your uncle ” 

“I owe him nothing,” she said, forgetting conventional 
respect in her hot haste, “nothing, nothing at all.” 

“Then let Sicily owe it to you — peace, Rome’s trust, 
a time of quiet to grow great in art and commerce. But 
for that you must first know Sicily; must understand her 
aims, her needs, her hopes. Signorina, are you afraid of 
the Capua gardens in the morning?” 

“No,” she answered, looking him serenely in the eyes 
as Alvano might have done. “If I am to love Sicily why 
should I be afraid, since perfect love casts out fear.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Capuan Days 

To Agata, Bianca, passionately indignant though she was 
at the trick played upon her ignorance, spoke no word 
of censure. How, with any honesty could she, since she 
accepted the profit of the maid’s treachery? And each 
morning the tiring-woman of Montelengo’s choosing, her 
tongue in her cheek, watched her mistress descend the 
stairs on her way to the palace gardens : her task had been 
easier than His Eminence, the Cardinal of San Marco del 
Monte, had anticipated. One thing alone disturbed her — 
never, after that first morning, would her mistress wear so 
much as a ribbon that Ursula di Crescenzo had not first 
approved. 

In the gardens Frederick was almost invariably alone. 
If Pier della Vigna were with him he was at once dis- 
missed; Alvano was never present. And day by day a 
curious intimacy grew, an intimacy which, to the super- 
ficial observer, might have been full of danger for a girl 
unaccustomed to the heady wine of an Emperor’s favour, 
drunk in such an atmosphere as that of sensuous Capua. 

As things fell out there was no such risk. One reason, 
perhaps, was that Luca Alvano filled Bianca’s thoughts 
more than she knew, and another that Frederick, however 
Oriental in his customs, was neither a Charles II nor a 
Louis XV. It would have astonished Agata and her fellow 
ill-tongued gossips of the palace, but the one subject they 
supposed uppermost in the Capua garden through these 
warm spring mornings was the subject neither so much 
as thought of. 


208 


CAPUAN DAYS 


209 


Their talk was mostly of Sicily. At first Bianca, always 
with the thought of entrapping the Emperor into some 
admission which would clear away the cloud of doubt 
hanging above the sailing of the Crusade, pretended an 
enthusiastic interest she did not feel. But as Frederick’s 
ideals unfolded themselves, splendid imaginings glowing in 
words of fire, indifference slipped into interest and interest 
into an enthusiasm the equal of his own. 

Nor was Frederick’s attitude surprising, Bianca’s strange 
compound of ignorance and shrewd knowledge — ignorance 
of the intrigues of the great world and knowledge of needs 
gathered first-hand from the peasants of the Marches, 
was at once a stimulus and a whetstone, quickening his 
comprehension of the mind of the people. 

From time to time, as if without purpose, she sounded 
him on the preparations for the Crusade. But always he 
fenced her; now with a jest, “Why talk of August in 
April? Sufficient unto the day is the good or the evil!” 
Now with an imperious, curt dismissal of the subject which 
forbade continuance. 

But there came a day, April having grown to middle 
age, when she put a question hard to parry. As com- 
monly, Frederick had been vehement on the progress Sicily 
must make under the guidance of those who understood 
her needs. 

“And the Empress, no doubt, will carry on the work 
while you are in Palestine ?” 

He halted in his stride and turned on her almost as if 
in anger. “The Empress? Is Sicily a toy for a child to 
play with ?” 

“The Duke of Spoleto then?” 

“It is Spoleto’s one fault that he does not understand 
the people : he is of too old a generation.” 

“In that case,” said she, speaking with purposeful de- 
liberation, “for the sake of Palestine Sicily must suffer.” 


210 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Then she added one of the shrewd hits such as had won 
him at the first. “Your Grace, I have lived among peas- 
ants and I know that land newly won from nature soon 
goes back to nature if left to itself : the weed seeds are not 
all out of it and they get the upper hand.” 

“Well?” he answered, and his voice was hard, “what 
then ?” 

“Just this: Your Grace, for ten years you have laboured 
with Sicily, leave her to herself and she goes back to nature : 
what are ten years in the life of a nation !” 

For a moment she thought he was going to answer her 
in the Imperial vein which ended all discussion. But his 
mood changed, and his face was clouded with troubled 
care as he turned up the slope towards the sundial. There 
he halted, his fingers playing absently round the gnomon. 

“Begone about your business,” he quoted, as his gaze 
fell upon the grave motto. “That is, Do your duty as 
you see it and do it now.” He looked up, and as their 
eyes met his grew keenly, alertly alive. “Half Roman, 
half Sicilian ; part Pandone, part Caldora : which way does 
the balance tip? But it does not matter. No cousin 
of Luca Alvano’s could betray a trust. Which is duty — 
the vow of the boy who understood little of his oath, or the 
needs of a nation which the man understands ? No ! Say 
nothing. Every man must deliver his own soul, and I have 
no doubt as to the answer, nor have had for years. If 
Honorius were alive, the good, kindly man would accept 
my reading of it, but this grey old wolf of a Gregory, full 
of his own greatness and drunk with his conception of the 
greatness of the Church, will excommunicate, curse and 

damn ” He broke off, his chin lifted. “If it were 

but myself, the man Frederick, he might rave his bitterest 
and hurl what threats his senile anger teaches him. If 
there’s a God above all, He will understand. But the Pope 
will go further, he will lay the whole land under interdict, 


CAPITAL DAYS 


211 


he will force war on our peace, will turn the clock back 
not ten years but fifty, and upon me — me — lies the de- 
cision !” 

As she listened to the outburst Bianca’s smouldering 
heart leaped into fire. “No Eoman, Your Grace — 
Sicilian, all Sicilian. Pandone? I owe nothing to Pan- 
done, no ! nor to the Church : and surely Sicily has need 
of you.” 

“Aye,” he answered, calming. “If, as I say, Gregory 
would strike Frederick only. But the interdict! Do you 
understand what that means for the innocent? No dead, 
not your dearest, to have Christian burial, no child bap- 
tized, no man or maid married, the churches closed upon 
their darkened altars, the Host banished, the land heathen, 
the souls of Frederick’s people damned for Frederick’s 
sins.” 

“No !” she said, shrinking and trembling, “never ! 
never! You misjudge His Holiness. Old, Gregory may 
be, old and grey, but no wolf. I have seen him ” 

“Yes, lording it in the splendour of the procession!” 

“Nearer than that — there, in the Vatican, face to 
face ” 

He interrupted her roughly, a sudden flush reddening his 
fair skin, “In the Vatican? You?” 

There was interrogation in the voice, yet Bianca was 
silent. Her generous warmth had led her further than was 
wise, and explanations were difficult. At the continued 
silence Frederick’s dulled suspicions woke afresh. 

“Nothing Eoman — all Sicilian!” he said with biting 
sarcasm. But the girl met the hinted contempt without 
flinching. 

“Now, Your Grace, yes, as God lives — but not then, 
then I was ignorant.” 

Frankly, boldly, the boldness of conscious good faith, 
her eyes met his, and as the Emperor read their message 


212 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


he softened. “I think I understand. Of Luca Alvano’s 
cousin I ask no questions — no explanations. You were 
in the Vatican?” 

“Yes, Your Grace. Such an old, old man; very old, 
very grey, very tired. But there was nothing of the wolf. 
Rather, he seemed at times hardly of this world. A wolf ? 
No! His hand shook as it lay upon my head; when he 
blessed me his voice was very gentle and very weary. 
Again and again he said he longed for peace. Your Grace, 

if he understood as we understand, surely — surely ,” 

She broke off, doubtful how to clothe her thought in words ; 
the thought natural to the generous enthusiasm of youth, 
that the crying needs of Italy must surely come first in 
every Italian heart, be he Pope or peasant. 

Nor was there need for expression ; Frederick understood 
the unfinished sentence. Also, Bianca’s insistence had 
shaken him into something like doubt of Alvano’s firm 
conviction, and his own no less firm belief. 

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “yes, perhaps it is so. From 
the heights of the Papal chair Gregory may see clearer than 
Ugolino Conti. But who shall find out the truth ?” 

To that question Bianca had no answer ready at the 
moment. 

That, as has been said, was when April had grown to 
middle-age. Meanwhile, no day had passed in which 
Capua and the court did not strive to show honour to 
Gregory’s embassy. City and palace alike kept holiday. 
Jousts and tourneys Frederick would not permit. Italians, 
he said, had other use for sword and lance, even in play; 
but privately he feared lest the emulation of mock warfare 
should breed real strife between Sicily and Rome. But in 
their place there were banquets, hunting-parties, hawking- 
parties, fetes; there was even, to Arsoli’s great scandal, a 
display by Frederick’s Saracen dancing-women. 

To Bianca, who had never so much as heard of Saracen 


CAPUAN DAYS 


213 


dancers, the slow, rhythmic posturings in an Eastern bar- 
baric splendour to a music wierd and unearthly, were of 
breathless interest and without offence. If at times a 
white arm writhed into sight a moment, the filmy gauze 
flung across the head, and descending almost to the feet, 
clothed the dancer with impersonality. But even while the 
pipes still mingled their shrill wailings with the tinkling 
of lutes and the clash of cymbals, Arsoli gathered his robe 
about him and left the audience hall without so much as a 
bow to Yolande, by whose side he sat. His secretary and 
chaplain followed him, some thought with reluctance. 

“Alas !” said Frederick with mock regret, as the number 
ended, “I fear neither I nor my poor dancers will ever win 
favour with the Church! On my soul, I think they see 
something in us both which does not exist.” 

“Ah, Your Grace,” answered Ursula di Crescenzo, her 
clear voice sounding with significance over half the hall, 
“if each would lift the veil the Church might be better 
content !” 

During these days, whether hunting or hawking, or on 
the riding excursions towards the hills, Alvano was thrown 
much with Bianca. The Empress, petulant, young even 
for her years, and lacking that wifely wisdom which in 
high or low finds and expresses an interest in what interests 
the husband, professed a dislike for such rough sport. 
Ursula di Crescenzo, therefore, rode with the Emperor or, 
for reasons of policy, remained with Yolande in Capua. In 
her absence Count Marco took her place, and Frederick’s 
intercourse with Bianca was limited to the simple courtesies 
of a public greeting. 

Such an arrangement was entirely to Alvano’s liking; 
nor, being a man who thought little of himself where 
women were concerned, did he imagine for a moment that 
the close and growing daily intimacy might be fraught with 
ultimate pain for Bianca. Even when the youth of Capua, 


214 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


drawn like flies to a honey-pot as Agata had foreseen, 
challenged his privileges to their own discomfiture he saw 
no deeper than a shy preference for one who was both 
cousin and early friend. 

That his increasing distaste to the bold scheme, whereby 
he might in his own person win the Papacy to the cause of 
the Empire for the glory of Italy, was due to the coming 
of Bianca into his life he did not now disguise from him- 
self. Nor, with that distaste daily quickened, was it diffi- 
cult now to see flaws and objections, pitfalls of failure even, 
which enthusiasm had formerly brushed aside or left un- 
considered. 

The whole plan was a chain of “if” and “perhaps,” and 
with the failure of any one link it snapped like a pack- 
thread. If the influence of the Empire procured his rapid 
advancement to the Cardinalate, perhaps the violent 
Church party, at present so antagonistic, would not become 
suspicious; if Gregory, or Gregory’s successor, forced war, 
perhaps the Curia would desire peace ; if he won to himself 
a party in the Conclave, perhaps it would be strong enough 
to carry the election; if Gregory died — if Gregory’s suc- 
cessor died — if — if — if ! 

And through and over and beyond every “if” sounded 
Frangipani’s warning, Frangipani, who knew Rome and 
the Church as few knew them — No Pope can ever be a 
Ghibelline ! It was little wonder that, riding day by day at 
Bianca’s side, Alvano found the cost greater than he had 
counted and the gain more doubtful; little wonder, too, 
that there was a cloud across the April sun, a sting of 
winter in the warm April air, a blight upon the riot of 
young April life. 

So he rode moodily, in a dull abstraction that often 
forced Bianca to the company of her own thoughts. And 
in such an association, with her thoughts as company, 
Bianca had no difficulty in knowing the truth — Luca 


CAPITAN DAYS 


215 


Alvano had grown to be more than kin. Women — women 
such as Bianca Pandone — are more honest with themselves 
than men ever can he; knowing the truth she did not 
attempt to disguise it from herself, but with the knowledge 
there came that unconscious defence against self-revelation 
which in all such women is, as it were, the spirit’s modesty 
hiding from peeping eyes. The better she understood her- 
self the more aloof she grew ; pleasant familiarities of com- 
radeship, which had insensibly grown up between them, 
fell into disuse, and as her heart warmed her speech and 
manner chilled. 

It was therefore little wonder if, misreading the signs, 
Luca Alvano told himself with a bitter heart that he need 
not pause for Bianca’s sake. Yet, even while the very 
bitterness of heart found a certain satisfaction in contem- 
plating the irrevocable step of entering the priesthood, he 
hesitated to tell her his purpose — because of the story of 
Malazzorbo she had no great love for the Church. 


CHAPTER XXIY 


Flint and Steel 

But though Frederick banned the mock warfare of joust 
and tourney he substituted a spectacle which might be more 
to Crescenzo’s taste, while hinting a message not to be 
missed even by Arsoli’s arrogance. 

“The Holy Father, whose love has lent us your presence 
in Sicily, Lord Bishop,” he said, “will naturally ask what 
are the prospects of the Crusade now assembling at 
Palermo.” 

“Ah! so there is a Crusade assembling at Palermo?” 
Arsoli’s eyebrows were lifted as he spoke. “That will be 
good news to His Holiness !” 

“No news, I think,” answered Frederick drily. “Those 
Franciscan brothers to the sun, moon and seven stars, and 
the Dominicans, Domini canes , Hounds of the Lord, who 
swarm in packs in Palermo, must have kept Gregory in- 
formed.” 

“Seekers after truth, and with little result for their 
labours,” retorted the Bishop, no whit disturbed at the 
hint of espial. 

“Truth ? To-day I shall show you three thousand truths 
not to be gainsaid even by Rome,” replied the Emperor. 
“Count Marco, we hope for the presence of the Countess 
and Signorina Pandone at the palace gates in an hour, 
and you also, Your Grandeur; perhaps you will be better 
pleased than with my poor dancers. As to the horses, the 
grooms have their orders.” 

This time the Empress was of the riding party, her 
pretty, childish face less petulantly discontented than 

216 


FLINT AND STEEL 


217 


Bianca had ever before seen it. It may be that being the 
resplendent centre of a glory of splendour moved her to 
complacency. And not even in the procession of His 
Holiness had Home shown a more splendid individual 
magnificence. From the seven trumpeters who, with the 
heralds of Sicily and the Empire in their tabards blazoned 
with their master’s arms, headed the train, down to the 
Palace Guard closing the rear, the long line of knights 
and dames, nobles and courtiers, princes of the Empire, 
and princes of the Church shone and sparkled in the sun 
like a jewelled belt from a woman’s waist. 

Yolande and the Emperor were in tissue of gold, and the 
duller gleam of the yellow metal fought for recognition 
with the polished and damaskeened steel of bit, stirrup 
and horse-housing; as in the days of Solomon, silver was 
nothing accounted of when Frederick rode in state. Nor 
were Spoleto, Bavaria, and Landgrave and the rest far be- 
hind their master. If there was a difference it was no 
greater than showed that Frederick was Emperor, and yet 
was slight' enough to say : The Emperor is not alone the 
greatness and the glory of Sicily and the Empire. Only 
where the Eomans rode was there a flaw of dulness in 
the splendour; taken unawares they rode as to a hawking 
party. 

And yet Ursula di Crescenzo snatched a partial victory 
out of the apparent defeat. Eecognising the position at 
a glance, she paused before mounting at the palace gates 
and beckoned to a page. 

“Take this to His Excellency’s apartments,” she said, 
loosening a broad-linked gold chain from her neck, then, 
smiling, mounted to her place by the Emperor’s side. 

“Countess,” said Frederick, “you make our richness seem 
poor.” 

“Your Grace,” she retorted, “your richness is no poorer 
than — your richness. Eome is in Eome, not in Sicily,” 


£18 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


and rode forward still smiling. A woman’s bitter wit is 
like the head of an arrow, a small thing, and yet finding a 
way through a joint in the armour. Before Capua gate 
was passed Frederick was not so sure that Sicily had scored 
a point over Rome. 

That Capua knew the unusual was afoot was shown by 
the crowds of towns-folk thronging the road taken by the 
heralds. Everywhere the shops were closed or almost de- 
serted and the city made holiday, but without that latent 
truculence which lent even the laughter of the Roman mob 
a hint, if not a threat, of tragedy. 

And yet, like all Italian crowds, they were open in their 
preferences. Yolande they greeted with respectful silence ; 
they knew her for a cypher and as a cypher let her pass. 
For the Emperor they shouted themselves hoarse; Arsoli 
they frankly cursed as only Southern Italians can curse; 
while to the German princes they gave the same dumb 
greeting which had met the Empress, but it was a dumb- 
ness with a difference; they represented the Crusade and 
Capua did not love the Crusade. 

Bianca, to her astonishment, was singled out for a warm 
welcome, but with an association of her name with that of 
Alvano, by whose side she rode, which sent the blood to her 
cheeks and a rush of warmth to her heart. Once she 
glanced at him, the dawn of a smile in her eyes, but Alvano, 
his brows knit, looked neither to right nor left nor seemed 
to hear, and the dawn clouded. 

Beyond the city gates — not the northern or Roman gate, 
but that which opened towards the river — the procession 
increased its pace to a rapid trot, and, quitting the high- 
way, turned through a scattered spread of villas and gar- 
dens which led to the open country. Here stretched the 
broad, unfenced pastures surrounding Capua, pastures 
broken by groves of luxuriant chestnut or walnut trees, 
now in their freshest beauty. 


FLINT AND STEEL 


219 


Upon the edge of this fiat, grassy plain was gathered 
half Capua, flanking a knoll whose sharp rise dominated 
the league-long pastures. Upon this hillock the Emperor’s 
standard was set up, and there the procession halted. To 
the left, abreast of the rising ground but a long furlong 
off, a denser wood than common stretched northwards. 

“Count Marco, choose your place where you will,” said 
Frederick. “All Italy knows that where men and arms 
are you go where it pleases you, and it is ill for any 
to say you nay. Your Grandeur, bide here by me, who 
am a man of peace as truly as you are. Sound the call, 
trumpeters !” 

As the Emperor ended he raised his hand, palm out- 
wards. Instantly the seven trumpets blared as one, and 
while the echoes still flew Hermann of Salza rode at a trot 
from behind the cover of the wood on the left. Over the 
light chain-armour, which showed in gleams at the throat 
and wrists, he wore the sabre-crossed white surcoat of his 
Order ; in his right hand he held a drawn sword, the blade 
resting in the hollow of the bridle arm. 

Behind him, in a double line, came a hundred of the 
Teutonic knights, garbed and armed like their leader, each 
followed by four mounted men-at-arms with swords at the 
thigh and steel upon head and breast. Wheeling slowly, 
they passed the knoll at a foot pace, looking neither to one 
side nor the other, the only sound the tramping of hoofs 
and the rattle of bridle chains. 

“Give me men like these,” said Crescenzo, who had 
reined up alongside Alvano, “and the Arno ford would not 
stop me!” 

“Wait,” said Frederick, who overheard, and raised his 
hand the second time. 

Again the trumpets blared. This time it was a com- 
pany on foot, marching ten deep, that swept out in close 
order from the shelter of the timber. They were Sicilian 


B 20 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

cross-bow men, each with his quiver of bolts at his hip, 
his arbalist on his shoulder and a long shield-like garment 
of pliant cowhide covering him from throat to knee. Round 
by the knoll’s foot they swept, marching as one man, every 
swing of the shoulder, every shift of the foot in accurate 
time, their unison the smooth co-ordination of a great 
machine, and in silence passed on. 

German pikemen followed, a bulkier, taller breed than 
the Sicilians, as men need to be whose weight is behind 
their weapons. They wore iron bonnets and light body 
armour as far as the waist, and the head of every man’s 
weapon, carried at the slant upon the shoulder, blazed in 
the sun like a spurt of flame. 

But at the fourth blaring of the trumpets Bianca caught 
her breath and Arsoli, forgetting to hide the man in the 
priest, swore softly. Again it was a troop of horsemen, 
but a troop who bore no blazon of the Cross upon the breast. 
[Fierce faced, black bearded, swarthy of skin, there was no 
need of the naked scimitar or wind-swept, white burnous 
to proclaim them children of the East. The very beasts 
they rode — light, fine-limbed arabs, small in the bone, 
small in the head, wide in the eye and nostril, and with a 
springing lilting gait all their own, told their origin. At 
their head rode Sheik Hussein, and all knew them for what 
they were before the Emperor broke the silence with four 
words flung like a challenge. 

“My Saracens from Lucera.” 

For once it was Crescenzo who had an answer readiest. 
“With such men I could do more than force a ford; I 
think I could storm the mouth of hell itself.” 

“Small wonder if you could!” said Arsoli, his voice 
hard in a sneer. “What would that be but their home 
going !” 

“You mistake, Lord Bishop,” retorted the Emperor. 


FLINT AND STEEL 221 

“It is the Christian who strikes at his own home and blood ; 
my Saracens are faithful to bread and salt/’ 

“And yet they w T ill fight against their fellow devils in 
Palestine ! A strange faithfulness, truly !” 

“Again you mistake/ 5 Frederick answered drily. “These 
and the rest are not for Palestine. They are the three 
thousand truths not to be gainsaid. These I leave behind 
to protect my kingdom, and Sicily has many more like 
them. Did you think I would leave Sicily stripped bare 
to the bones for wolves to pick? 55 

“And where would the wolves come from, Your Grace ?” 

“Where do wolves come from but from the north? 55 

“But the Crusade is holy, those who fight for the Lord’s 
sepulchre sacred; who would dare lay impious hands on 
what the Church held in keeping? 55 

“Aye, 55 replied Frederick, still drily, “but who would 
keep the keepers? A wise man sees to his own house. 
Your Grandeur. 55 

By this time the troop of white-clad horsemen had 
defiled past, as silent as those they followed. To Bianca 
there was something sinister in their silence and their set 
faces, so fierce yet so unemotional. It was as if the dead 
who had died in their wild battle-passion, with their lust 
for blood hot in them, now rode coldly savage among the 
living. 

Twice, thereafter, the Emperor gave his sign, and twice 
the trumpets blared, summoning in turn companies of 
Greek mercenaries, armed with javelins, and Sicilian 
archers, their five-feet weapons slung with full quivers on 
their backs. They, too, passed in silence. 

Meanwhile Salza had led his troops round in a half circle, 
wheeling it in double column so that it faced the hillock 
two or three furlongs distant; there they halted. In be- 
hind them, also in double column, turned the horsemen of 
the East, while at either side, fronting each other across 


222 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


the head of Salza’s troop, were the foot soldiers, led by the 
Sicilian companies. The formation was that of a giant 
truncated T, the Saracen horsemen being the stem. 

For the last time the Emperor raised his hand and at 
the blared note of the trumpet call Salza set spurs to his 
horse. In the beginning he and his troop rode slowly, but, 
gaining speed at every stride, soon broke into a gallop 
that in the last furlong quickened to such a hurricane 
charge of thundering hoofs, levelled lances and naked sword 
blades, that Bianca, her teeth set, her breath sobbing in 
her throat, caught at and held Alvano with an unconscious 
hand. Then, with the leaders no further than a lance 
length from the slope, the whole troop broke with one voice 
into a mighty roar of acclamation. “Sicily ! Sicily ! God 
for Sicily and the Empire !” and, splitting ranks, bore to 
right and left that in their place might thunder, with a 
still wilder fierceness, the men of the East, crying the 
same cry, Moslem though they were ; while down and across 
his arab’s neck each leaned with brandished scimitar, his 
swarthy, passionate face yet swarthier and more passionate 
in the fury of the onset. At the foot of the slope they, 
too, divided, wheeling their horses upon their very haunches 
that the footmen, converging from either side, might 
maintain the charge, echoing and re-echoing the hoarse 
salute “Sicily! Sicily! God for Sicily and the Empire!” 
Nor did that end the acclamation. From right and left 
half Capua joined in the cry, shouting it as men shout 
whose hearts are hot within them until the dense, upstand- 
ing walls of foliage rolled it back in echo. 

But Frederick’s eyes, glistening with pride and afire 
with exultation, were not on Capua’s citizens but on his 
troops, now forming in a solid line facing the hillock. East 
and West, Cross and Crescent, emblazoned surcoat and 
white burnous, side by side; and over all the standard of 
Sicily, of Jerusalem and the Empire. 


FLINT AND STEEL 223 

“The greatest power in the world! — the greatest! — the 
greatest !” he said in an nnderbreath that shook. 

But Arsoli heard and answered. “There is a greater, 
Your Highness — the power of the keys. The power to 
shut or to open, to bless or to curse, is greater than the 
power to kill. Your Grace, will the Crusade sail in 
August ?” 

Stung by the discourteous brusqueness of the question 
and the scarcely veiled threat which foreran it, the Emperor 
turned fiercely on the prelate. 

“How can I tell? Am I God to prophesy that which 
shall be?” 

“Then it is your Grace’s purpose that it shall sail?” 

“Of what account are my purposes, or any man’s, Lord 
Bishop, when it is God who says aye or nay? Come, my 
heart, and you, fair ladies, the play’s played out for to-day. 
Count Marco, ride by me and tell me what flaws your skill 
would mend were my men yours.” 

But as Crescenzo turned his horse to follow the Emperor, 
Arsoli caught the bridle an instant. “Did you hear him? 
The play’s played — for to-day! It was a threat. Is it 
not time we were in Borne?” 

Loosening hold he reined back to where, higher up the 
slope, his chaplain stood with a group of the Franciscan 
and Dominican monks who had travelled with the em- 
bassy. Amongst them was brother Cornelius, his eyes 
glittering with excitement, the fever flush warm on his 
smooth cheeks. To these Arsoli turned, all self-control 
flung to the winds. 

“The Church is paltered with — played upon — tricked! 
You heard how he fenced me? You heard how he 
threatened? Crusade? There will be no Crusade while 
this Herod, this leaguer with Mahound lives to jeer at 
his oath. Is there none to rid the Church of this enemy 
to the Cross ?” He broke off, crossing himself with a hand 


22 4 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


that trembled. “Alas ! how the flesh prevails against the 
spirit. Forget, brethren, what I said in my haste. In 
His own time God will provide His vengeance; blessed be 
His hand! Come friends, let us return to this Capuan 
Gomorrah; but I think the Holy Father and the faith 
have need of us all.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


The Advice of the Grey Friar 

Next morning Bianca was surprised to find Brother 
Cornelius on the terrace overlooking the gardens. Though 
he and his fellow monks, whether of his own or the 
Dominican order, were in no sense attached to the embassy, 
Frederick, little as he liked or trusted them, had allotted 
them quarters in the palace, leaving them free to come and 
go as they pleased. The Franciscan’s presence, therefore, 
was not in itself astonishing. But since none knew the 
current gossip so exhaustively as the monks — never were 
there such pickers-up of floating trifles — it followed that 
Brother Cornelius was perfectly well aware that he was 
defying custom in approaching the gardens at all in the 
morning hour when they were devoted to the Emperor’s 
privacy. His presence vexed the girl, proving that she 
was watched, for he made no secret that he was there to 
waylay her. 

“God be with you,” he began, coming to meet her at 
the top of the marble flight fanning-out into the pleasaunce. 
“I know no greater wish, since He cannot be with us if 
we do not desire to be with Him, and to those who desire 
Him He is never far off. Our good brother the sun is 
warm in his love to-day.” 

“Yes,” assented Bianca, “it is pleasant here in the garden 
at this hour.” 

“It is paradise,” he said dreamily. “Our gentle sisters, 
the flowers, are at their sweetest and freshest.” Abruptly 
his voice and manner changed; he ceased folding his thin 
hands in one upon the other, a trick of his when absorbed, 
225 


226 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


and they fell trembling, though the long fingers were 
doubled upon the palms in an effort to force control. “Yes, 
a very paradise ; but, sister, in that other Eden, of God’s 
making and not man’s, there lurked the enemy of mankind 
and the thief of souls. I, who had such great need of 
merciful judging judge not, but it behooves us all to guard 
our feet lest they slip — lest they slip.” In the end his voice 
trailed away again into such a gentleness that Bianca could 
take no offence; nor, indeed was offence intended, though 
his meaning was plain. 

“I pray God to keep mine,” she said. 

At that he roused himself. “Yes, yes, so must we all. 
But there is always light to walk by when self does not 
throw a shadow on the path.” He paused, coughing, and 
with the unconscious gesture of custom put up a hand 
where the grey robe hung loosely over the pinched chest. 
“Now I,” he went on, as the fit subsided, “thinking only of 
myself, had hoped to die in Palestine. There I was wrong. 
God’s grace has shown me a nearer and a better road.” 

“Are you not stronger here in the south ?” asked Bianca, 
her pity tender in her eyes. 

Before answering the Franciscan looked wistfully round 
the sun-steeped garden, where every new day wrought a new 
miracle in opening bud or glory of the full-blown flower. 

“My weakness is my strength,” he said at last. “Dear 
mother earth is so beautiful that she is hard to leave. Flesh 
cries, No ! But weakness says an Aye there is no denying, 

and spirit whispers ” He broke off, a trouble on his 

gentle face that was not the sorrow of parting from dear 
mother earth. “Sister, do you think God can be as near 
to Sicily as to Palestine ?” 

“Why not?” she answered, awed to yet greater pity. 
“Are not His mercies everywhere ?” 

“Why, yes ! And if the Here is so beautiful what must 
the Beyond not be! So the shorter road is the best. 


227 


ADVICE OF THE GREY FRIAR 

Only, God grant that I take a soul with me on my way. 
Sister, is it true what they say — that His Highness does 
not go to confession ?” 

The question startled Bianca into silence almost as much 
by the abrupt shift of thought as by its strangeness. Then 
she remembered Frederick’s contemptuous reply to Arsoli 
the day before, and suspicion woke. If the friars were spies 
of the Church in Palermo why not also in Capua, and this 
strangely-flung question an attempt to fix some charge of 
heresy on the Emperor to put him wrong with the world ? 
She parried with a countering question. 

“How should I know, and why do you ask ?” 

“All the palace knows you for his friend — God keep 

your feet,” he answered. “As to why ” He ceased, 

the cough choking him, and this time the hand that caught 
at his breast was shaking as it had not shaken in the former 
paroxysm. “As to why,” he repeated, looking out across 
the gardens and drawing the grey robe closer about him as 
if even in the sun he felt a chill creeping over him, “sister, 
there is the Crusade. Men talk; they say there will be no 
Crusade — pray God they lie; they say His Highness, with 
his Saracens, both fighting men and women dancers, is no 
better than a heathen — I am very bold, and humbly pray 
God they lie.” Again he paused, his hands twitching and 
trembling even while the finger-tips bit in upon the palms 
in the renewed effort at self-control. When he continued 
he looked not at Bianca but beyond her. “If it were known 
that the Emperor reverenced the Sacraments of the Church, 
and obeyed her ordinances, it might silence these evil 
tongues. Most earnestly, sister, most earnestly, and with 
all my strength of heart and soul, I desire His Highness’s 
greatest good. We are humble folk, we poor followers of 
good Francis of Assisi, but we mix with the people as their 
friends and guides. If even I could say of my own knowl- 
edge that His Highness — sister, you who are his friend 


22 8 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


pray him, beseech him, entreat him, to give the proof to the 
world and to give it soon, very soon.” 

The appeal perplexed Bianca sorely. Of the Franciscan’s 
sincerity and deep-hearted earnestness there could be no 
question. His eyes were shining, his thin, smooth face 
aglow with the excitement of his urging. If this had been 
some personal private boon upon which his whole soul 
were set he could not have been more engrossed, more 
eagerly insistent that there should be no denial. In his 
absorption his nervousness had fallen from him so that 
his hands had ceased to tremble. It was as if he had 
dreaded the entering upon his petition, but being entered 
in had lost his fear. Human nature is like that where the 
sense of need is bred out of the very core of the spirit. 

And yet, in spite of the friar’s honest earnestness, the 
girl felt her suspicions return tenfold. The knowledge 
gleaned through all these past weeks cried a doubt to her. 
The Church feared and hated the Emperor, Arsoli would 
exult if he could trip him to his own downfall : the brothers 
of these newly-founded monkish orders were the devoted, 
unquestioning servants of the Church, her tools even; and 
yet here was a Franciscan urging what needs must make 
any attack on the orthodoxy of the Emperor more difficult. 
Why? Brother Cornelius was transparently honest, but 
what lay beyond the honesty ? Bianca could find no answer 
to the question, and her solution of the problem showed' 
her wisdom. 

“I shall tell His Highness what you say ; but urge him ? 
entreat him? No! These things are for a man’s own 
conscience.” 

“Surely it is expedient ■” But Bianca cut sharply 

across the argument. 

“Expediency? Do you, a monk of God, plead ex- 
pediency ?” 

“I plead for a man’s soul,” he answered, with greater 


ADVICE OF THE GEEY FEIAK 


229 


boldness than he had yet shown. “ Sister, if the Emperor 
agrees that I am right will you tell me, that I may be 
present in the church?” 

“Yes,” she assented, “I will tell you. If he agrees, the 
rest lies with you.” 

“God knows, and God have mercy,” he replied. “But, 
sister, let it be very soon. Peace be with you.” 

As the monk returned to the palace Bianca descended 
the steps, still full of troubled thought. Her conclusion 
was that there was some scheme afoot of forcing Frederick 
into the Crusade, that thereby he might demonstrate to the 
world his unswerving fidelity to the Church. That his 
faith was not that of a devotee Bianca by this time knew. 
His employment of Saracen troops, a naked warning shaken 
in Arsoli’s face the day before, as well as his talk with her 
at the sundial on the morning of the spectacle, had shown 
the girl clearly that Frederick claimed both freer thought 
and freer liberty of action than the Church could openly 
grant. But just as clearly she knew that if the Emperor 
would outwardly conform to the Church’s commands, not 
Gregory himself, grey old wolf though he might be, would 
launch anathema at his inward lukewarmness of faith. 
Failing a willing compliance on Frederick’s part, Arsoli, 
Gregory’s self in spirit, and more truly his envoy than 
Crescenzo, might so plan as to force a compliance whose 
unwillingness Borne would ignore. Well, her duty was 
clear — she must lay the Franciscan’s entreaty before the 
Emperor and leave events to stronger hands than her 
own. 

Commonly Bianca, more eager day by day for the fresh 
sweetness of the morning air as the heat of advancing 
spring grew greater, had the garden to herself for a time, 
Frederick, on such occasions as he joined her, entered by 
a small door at the foot of his private staircase. But this 
morning he was before her ; she found him pacing the slope 


230 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

between the sundial and the Egyptian pool, his chin on his 
breast, his hands locked behind his back. 

At the sound of her footfall he raised his head, the cloud 
in his eyes lifting as he looked that frank admiration which, 
with a different nature than Bianca’s or one who was not 
a cousin of Luca Alvano’s, might have had a significance 
to justify the Franciscan’s admonition. 

“You are late and I am pressed for time,” he began, 
acknowledging her customary reverence* with a gesture. 
Friends they might be, but Frederick was at all times the 
Emperor. “What has detained you?” 

“A message for Your Highness.” 

“Then let it wait. Bianca, you who are half a Caldora, 
are you truly all Sicilian as you said yesterday ?” 

The curt, direct question called for a curt, direct reply; 
and Bianca gave it, pausing to weigh no reasons for its 
asking. 

“Always and altogether, Your Grace.” 

“I thought no less. You, I think, are one whose word 
is her word. Will you go on a mission to Pandone for 
me ?” 

“Pandone ?” she repeated, startled, “my uncle, the 
Cardinal ?” 

Frederick nodded, and with the natural, careless gesture 
of man to man in frank comradeship, though there is little 
doubt he knew Bianca was neither Alvano nor Pier della 
Yigna, the Emperor slipped his hand under her arm and 
drew her with him under the trees. 

“What you said yesterday sticks to me like a burr in 
sheep’s wool. Gregory the Pope may see clearer — be 
broader in mind, more truly a lover of Italy, than TTgolino 
Conti the Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia. Pandone will know. 
Sound Pandone. Gregory is old; there must soon be 
another election: sound Pandone. The good-will of the 
Empire is not to be despised in the Conclave — sound Pan- 


ADVICE OF THE GREY FRIAR 


231 


done. I could send Alvano or della Vigna, but this is work 
for a woman’s handling; a man’s clumsier wit might spoil 
all. Bianca, will you go for me — and yet not so much for 
me as for Sicily?” 

“Your Grace, will the Crusade sail?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

For a moment Bianca made no reply, so busy was she 
setting her thoughts in order. Her first impulse was to 
answer. Because I am here for nothing else than to know 
the truth. But she put the impulse aside. What need was 
there to confess to Frederick, and through him to Luca 
Alvano, that she. was in Sicily as a spy ? To Alvano the 
treason against his master might well be the one sin im- 
possible to forgive, and more and more Bianca realized 
that to be at odds with Luca Alvano was to live in the cold 
of the world. The question had been asked in a vague 
assumption that the knowledge might aid her with Pan- 
done, but now it was hard to justify. Certainly the knowl- 
edge would never be used as it w r ould have been in her early 
days in Capua. Then she thought she saw a link which led 
on to the Franciscan’s request. 

“His Holiness is very jealous for the Church. If he 
knew the Crusade would certainly sail unless he restrained 
its sailing it might content him. It would be an admission 
of his power as Pope.” 

“It will certainly sail if need must, but not unless,” 
answered Frederick grimly. “The preparations are ripe 
but not over-ripe — they could wait and take no harm. 
Pandone, I am told, is in favour : can Pandone win time ?” 

“Your Grace, help him to win time : this is the message 
which kept me late this morning.” Very briefly, but not 
without diffidence and difficulty, she told how she had been 
waylaid upon the terrace, told the suggestion urged by 
Brother Cornelius and the reason he gave for the urging. 
Nor did Frederick interrupt her, though his grey eyes 


232 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


darkened and the full lips tightened out of their comely 
lines as he listened. “Your Grace,” she ended, reading 
easily the signs of his rising anger, “if I have offended it 
is for Sicily’s sake; but might not this, too, aid me with 
my uncle ?” 

“No offence of yours,” he burst out in wrath. “These 
prying monks go too far. Already they think themselves 
priests and as priests Gods! But this is Arsoli’s work: 
this is his greatness of the Church to bless or curse. Yes- 
terday I showed him the littleness of Rome, to-day he 
shakes the Keys in my face! But by the Splendour of 
God ” 

“Your Grace, Your Grace,” cried Bianca, greatly daring, 
for Frederick in his wrath was not always heedful where 
his offended anger found vengeance. “The monk was hon- 
est, that I will swear. He is a poor creature, dying before 
our eyes — a frail shred of life, so full of a great spirit that 
it frays his little strength to weakness. Your Grace — oh ! 
if I offend forgive me — what if he spoke the truth ? What 
if men’s tongues whisper evil wrongfully ? What if he could 
right the wrong and strike a weapon from Arsoli’s hand? 
What if I might go to the Cardinal and say ” 

But Frederick, in his turn, interrupted the passion of 
pleading. Already the fires of his wrath had burnt low, 
and though the heat lingered there was now no consuming 
flame. 

“Aye — the Cardinal: perhaps you are right. Differ 
honestly and Rome will curse ; conform and she will bless — 
there Arsoli spoke truth! Perhaps your friar is right. 
Evil tongues there are, God wot.” He paused, his brow 
knit, his mouth hard in compression. “The sooner the 
better, he said? There your shred of a monk is right: 
Pandone must be sounded without delay. To-morrow-morn- 
ing, at six, in the private chapel : after that — Rome.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


For the Greater Glory of God 

The Franciscan received the news of Bianca’s success with- 
out emotion. The excited exaltation of the morning had 
died utterly away and, perhaps by natural reaction, a 
gloomy depression seemed to have taken its place. 

“Six o’clock?” he repeated, almost absently. “Yes, the 
early morning will be best; at such an hour there will be 
few about.” Then he roused himself as if putting aside the 
subject as ended. “Sister, surely you were wrong this 
morning ; how can God be as near to Sicily as to Palestine, 
where His Son died for men? And I had hoped to die 
there too — perhaps at Bethlehem, perhaps at Bethany, per- 
haps even near the tomb itself. Now that can never be,” 
and he sighed shiveringly. 

“But why should you not go on the Crusade?” she 
answered, leaving his mysticism aside and keeping, like the 
practical woman she was, to the practical issue. 

“Crusade? There will be no Crusade! How can there 
be a Crusade while — but I forget; you are his friend. With 
all my soul I pray that God has indeed kept your feet. Six 
o’clock? Then I shall hear our little brothers, the birds, 
sing matins as I keep vigil: after that the time will not 
be long. Peace be with you, sister.” He paused, his mouth 
tremulous, a world of sorrow dumb behind the tears start- 
ing in his gentle eyes. “Would to God I could give myself 
the peace I pray for you.” 

That day passed, as its fellows had done, in mutual 
courtesies between Capua and Rome, but through every 

233 


234 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


hour of it Bianca was conscious of a tightening tension. 
Crescenzo, the soldier, had taken the previous day’s spec- 
tacle in good part, seeing in it nothing more than the 
frank and open mind of a man who desired peace, showing 
cogent reasons why he should be left in peace; but it was 
clear to all that Arsoli, being ready to take offence, had 
found offence. Betwixt him and the Emperor, then, the 
courtesies were those of men who openly recognize the 
other’s will to hurt, given the opportunity — a state of 
things that, for comfort, may be likened to a lighted candle 
set in a barrel of gunpowder; sooner or later the explosion 
must come, and at any moment a spark may scatter wreck 
and destruction. Plainly, therefore, Brother Cornelius and 
the Emperor were right — there was much need for haste. 

And yet the knowledge that there would be no delay 
brought little comfort to Bianca. The more she considered 
the intervention of the Franciscan the more doubtful and 
anxious she grew. The old question, Why should Gregory’s 
monk thwart Gregory’s purpose? clamoured afresh, and 
found no plausible answer. For righteousness sake? But 
to the monk the Church stood for righteousness, and if it 
was the will of the Church publicly to brand Frederick as 
schismatic — no doubt for the good of Christendom and for 
Frederick’s own soul’s health — why should Brother Corne- 
lius, the Church’s servant, thwart that will? A trap, 
then? to obtain through the confessional what Frederick 
evaded in open speech? But the Emperor would confine 
himself to sins of the past, and in April would certainly not 
confess to the breaking of an oath in August. 

So the argument ran round in a circle, finding no point 
of solution. Nor did the monk’s mental attitude help her ; 
it was, rather, an added confusion that he, whose strength 
had rallied in the south, and who had hoped to die in 
Palestine, wept that his time was near at hand but God’s 
peace far off. Why? It was then that Bianca Pandone 


235 


THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD 

grew afraid of she knew not what, and, saying nothing of 
her fear, turned to Alvano under the natural guidance of 
her woman’s heart. 

Alvano listened with growing uneasiness and surprise. 
It was, perhaps, natural that of all the palace he was one 
of the few whom the gossip that linked Bianca’s name with 
the Emperor failed to reach. But the memory of Fred- 
erick’s frank admiration on the day of their first meeting 
came back to him, together with disjointed recollections of 
words let fall by the Emperor that same night. Frederick’s 
Orientalism was well known — half in fury he broke in upon 
her story, 

“His Grace? Confession in the palace chapel at six 
o’clock to-morrow morning? How do you come to know 
His Grace’s private plans, and of all things, his purpose 
to confess ?” 

“By chance,” she answered, flushing at his angry 
vehemence, but not displeased since the open jealousy car- 
ried a comforting assurance with it. Indifference would 
have been indifferent. “And, Luca, I go in great fear for 
the Emperor.” 

“Why?” 

“I know no reason, only that I am in fear. I think 
that is why I come to you.” Her eyes softened, losing 
their strained anxiety for an instant. “Always, when I 
have been in fear, you have helped — in the atrium , that 
day of the procession and, most needed of all, though you 
never guessed it, in my misery outside the walls of Rome. 
I was so solitary ; I never thought to be happy in Sicily.” 

“And now?” 

She met his eyes gravely. “Yes, I have been happy — 
very happy.” 

“Because of — the court?” 

The brief pause was eloquent of suspicions not yet quieted, 
suspicions that might readily have bred offence. Without 


236 


GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


doubl:, his first thought had been to say, Because of the 
Emperor? But Bianca, a woman of plain speech at times, 
thought she knew the soil whence these suspicions sprang, 
and would not throw away a possible life’s happiness for 
a too scrupulous prudery. There was this, too — on the 
morrow she might be forced to leave Capua in private, nor 
could she, in honour, hint the coming parting to Alvano : 
her mission was the Emperor’s secret, not her own. Setting 
her natural woman’s shamefacedness aside she spoke. 

“Because of the court’s right hand,” she answered 
bravely, and with a smile that struggled hard for birth, 
but died in the struggle. 

Alvano was silent, he even drew back a step, then cried 
suddenly, sharply, but in a voice that stammered with its 
surprise. “Because of me? Bianca, who am I — I never 
dreamed — always these last days you seemed so far and 
always further from me ; and yet, God knows, never have I 
tasted such blessed happiness — never, nor knew the world 
held it.” 

“Would you have a woman tell all her secrets?” she 
answered, the wistful smile again finding birth in her eyes. 
“But now you know the greatest.” Then, having told her 
secret, instantly, in the shrinking revulsion of her woman’s 
nature, she strove to make as if she had not told it. “But, 
Luca, it was not ourselves I came to speak of — the Emperor, 
do you think there is harm meant ?” 

“No good,” answered Alvano. In the confusion of his 
mind the shift of thought was a relief. “Somewhere there 
is a net spread. And yet, of all the friars I have ever met, 
be they grey or black, this Cornelius seemed the most 
honest. Trouble no more, Bianca: what harm can come 
to His Grace in the private chapel ?” 

“But,” she pressed, “will you not be there ?” 

“And be told that if I had been wanted he would have 
sent for me?” 


THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD 237 

“Even so; better the risk of a sharp word than a life- 
long regret/ 5 

“Do yon wish it, Bianca?” 

“I wish what is right/ 5 she answered. “Surely the Em- 
peror comes first — before any fear of rebuke? Rebuke? 
Surely we should give our very selves for his asking, when 
and how he pleased, and think the gift no great thing? 55 
Out of the depth of her woman’s fears, vague and unreason- 
ing but very real, she spoke more warmly than she knew, 
and again Alvano was perplexed. 

“Let it be so, 55 he said curtly. “I shall be there. 55 

He stood silent a moment and she, too, was silent. Was 
her secret, the greatest, the most tender, the most sacred a 
woman’s heart can hide or whisper, to call forth no fuller, 
dearer, more satisfying answer ? Then indeed she had mis- 
read him and shamed the shrinking of her sex in vain. 
Then, as if by an effort, Alvano touched her shoulder with 
an unsteady hand — an uncertain touch and yet a touch 
that lingered. “Till to-morrow, 55 he said, nor did his voice 
seem more under control than his hand. “Bianca, most 
dear — never was a woman more dear — you have taught 
me what I never thought to learn ; be kind when you listen 
to me to-morrow. 55 The touch on her arm tightened, he 
even drew her nearer and stooped as if to kiss her on the 
forehead, but in the very act he drew back, releasing her 
almost roughly. “To-morrow, 55 he repeated, “to-morrow, 55 
and he turned away, leaving her bewildered, half contented 
and yet half angry. 

That night neither mistress nor maid was in a tolerant 
mood. 

“Rouse you at five o’clock? 55 repeated Agata vexedly. 
“But, signorina, is a woman to get no sleep ? 55 

“Did I hire you? 55 retorted Bianca. “If the service 
does not please you can leave it. 55 


238 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“And tramp afoot to Rome? There’s gratitude, after 
all I have done to help you on your way !” 

“To help me on my way?” Bianca was growing very 
angry. “What foolishness are you talking?” 

“If it’s foolishness it is your foolishness, not mine,” 
answered the maid. “Nor even now, after almost a month, 
do you go the right way about it. Five o’clock indeed! 
Why, an hour or two under the moon and stars, with the 
dark of a tree at hand, are worth all these sunshine morn- 
ings in the garden. You don’t know men as I know them.” 

“Thank God for that! But now you talk wickedness 
and worse than folly.” 

“Oh la ! la ! Signor ina, what are you in Capua for at all ? 
And I tell you again you go the wrong way with your five 
o’clock in the morning. Come now, there’s a growing moon 
not yet set, let me send word to His Grace — ” 

“Be silent, you vile woman — oh ! that a woman could be 
so vile ! To-morrow I shall beseech the Countess ” 

“Ah signorina, signorina, my tongue ran away with me. 
In the name of all the good saints forget my foolishness — 
yes, you were right, that is the word, my foolishness. The 
Countess ? No, no, why should the Countess come between 
us? And I don’t doubt it will be all right in the end. 
Five o’clock, signorina? Yes, yes, be sure I shall rouse 
you ; and to-morrow, signorina mia, you will forget 
to-night? Old Agata was a fool, a meddling fool; is the 
old fool pardoned, for her foolishness, signorina? No, 
no : say nothing to the Countess. Why should the 
Countess come between us ? Is there aught more to-night, 
signorina ?” 

“No,” said Bianca, curtly, “nothing more; you can 
go.” 

But beyond the door the tiring-woman’ss smoothness 
dropped from her like a Rung-off mask. “Rob me of my 
reward, would you? Pack me back to Rome with my 


THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD 


239 


credit lost, would you ? You’ll beseech the Countess ? Aye, 
aye, but what will the Countess say to the trysts in the 
garden, the dalliance in the shadows? Tell me that, you 
hypocritical piece of pretty flesh ! Oh, it’s all in the sun- 
shine ! Yes, but who’s there to see? Not a soul — not one ! 
Beseech the Countess ? More than Agata might go tramp- 
ing back to Rome with her credit lost,” and she descended 
the stairs in an evil mood. 

That night Bianca’s heart was too hot within her for 
much sleep. Chiefly her anger burned against Pandone 
• — the Churchman, her father’s brother, who in his greed 
of advancement forgot both ties of blood and vows of 
charity; Pandone, who not only spread a net for her, but 
suborned a hireling to entangle her feet. True, he had not 
altogether hidden the danger; almost he had warned her 
against it, but even while he warned he had hired this 
creature of Montelengo’s to make assurance certain that 
the warning should be without effect. “What are you in 
Capua for at all!” Little wonder if it galled the girl, 
galled her bitterly, to know that if her mission to Rome 
on behalf of the Emperor succeeded it would be to the 
benefit of Giordano Pandone ! Little wonder either if, 
when Agata, in her zeal, roused her in the blackest dark 
before the dawn, her eyes were heavy. 

Neither spoke of the past night’s sharp words. Bianca’s 
thoughts leaped forward, not back, and the tire-woman 
knew too well the danger of rousing sleeping dogs. She 
had brought a floating wick with her, and by its miserable 
light, a yellow spark in the as yet black vault of night, 
Bianca dressed. In silence she accepted the help of her 
maid, and for once Agata’s tougue was dumb ; the unusual, 
to her the sinister, was afoot, and though it woke her 
curiosity, it cowed her. More than ever she felt the need 
to placate her mistress, and yet she dared not speak lest 
she precipitated the very evil she feared. 


240 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Dismissing the maid, Bianca waited restlessly while 
dawn broadened, and the tiny yellow flame of the floating 
wick died into insignificance. She had no clear purpose — 
was not even sure but that, like Alvano, she might earn 
the censure of a reprimand for officiousness if she ap- 
proached the chapel at such a time and on such an occa- 
sion. Yet her mind was made up; even at the risk of 
blame she must set her fears at rest — the ringing for prime 
would be her warning that the time had come. And 
presently the bell clanged. 

The private chapel was built upon the level of the first 
floor of the palace, beneath it being the apartments given 
over to the use of the officiating clergy. It was not in- 
cluded within the walls of the main structure, but stood 
apart, being approached by a covered gallery, or loggia, 
some thirty feet in length. Here it was that Bianca pro- 
posed to wait. Her expectation was that the Emperor 
would attend prime, probably without a retinue, and at 
the close of the short service retire to the confessional. 

Her speculations were right in every particular. When 
she reached the gallery the chants and prayers of the office 
were ended; the chapel silent as if a void. But Alvano, 
standing midway along the gallery, was evidence that Fred- 
erick had not yet returned to the palace. Passing him 
with an inclination of the head she stepped lightly to the 
open door and looked within. 

Silent, or almost silent, but not altogether empty; at 
least two worshippers remained at their devotions. Be- 
yond the altar rails — the privilege of his rank in the 
Church — knelt Arsoli, the lights from the eastern rose win- 
dow of stained glass glorious about his bowed head, while, 
remote from him, as if to measure the gulf between a 
bishop’s purple and the grey robe of a simple friar, knelt 
Brother Cornelius. Bianca, had she knelt across the thres- 
hold, could almost have laid a hand on him, so close was he 


THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD 


241 


to the door upon its left. His head was bowed on his spread 
palms, hiding his face, and he rocked back and forth on his 
knees as if moved by some fierce ecstasy of spirit, some eager 
yearning of petition that would take no denial. From the 
right, where the shadows lay thickest in the angle of the 
walls, came a muttered muttering without coherency or 
sense of sound — human voices, human speech, but speech 
wherein no word of priest or penitent was articulate except 
to the bowed ear and God. Slipping quickly across the 
threshold Bianca knelt on the pavement; here was peace, 
here the confused tongues of the world and the inward 
strife of spirit were alike silent and she must give God 
thanks. If the Franciscan heard the rustle of her skirts 
as she half crouched at his shoulder he gave no sign but 
swayed on, absorbed in the fervour of his devotion. 

Truly here was peace; never had Bianca known such 
silence. The whispered sibilance from the confessional 
served only to enlarge the calm; Alvano’s shifting foot 
on the floor of the loggia was an offence against its quiet- 
ness. No words came to her lips, or even formed their 
conscious sense in her mind, yet never before had Bianca 
so uplifted spirit to spirit. It was as if the veil of flesh 
dissolved, and for the first time she realized and under- 
stood that nearness of the Eternal which is never far off. 
Then the interchange of whispered sibilances ceased ; where 
there had been two voices there was only one and it spoke 
with a deeper note. It scarcely needed her own experi- 
ence to tell her this was a message all the world might 
hear; she even caught the first words “Ego te absolvo” 
but the rest was lost as Brother Cornelius groaned bitterly 
within himself and spoke aloud, possibly not knowing that 
he spoke. 

“Give me strength! Oh, God! Give me strength, Oh, 
Father of love! It is for Thee and Thy greater glory 
— a soul for my hire, Lord God — one, one, that I go not 


242 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

into Thy presence empty.” Then the door of the con- 
fessional creaked and in the one moment Bianca and the 
friar rose to their feet. 

The girl stood nearer the door. Upon her, as she turned 
towards him, the Emperor’s gaze fell first and his eyes 
clouded with annoyance, almost with anger. For policy’s 
sake he had conformed, bowing himself to this law of the 
Church, but it vexed him that a woman should see the 
weakness; then he shifted to the face of the Franciscan, 
grey as his own hood. Frederick’s eyes cleared ; what mat- 
tered the weakness if it won him peace from Gregory’s 
suspicions and respite for Sicily? The price was a small 
one. Dipping his finger mechanically into the aspersorium 
he formed the points of the cross upon his breast, and 
passed out into the sunshine. 

It was then the Franciscan made his spring, driving 
Bianca staggering against the wall and crying “Herod! 
Herod!” in a voice hoarse with excitement. But the 
knife he had concealed in the folds of his loose frock fouled 
as he drew it, causing an instant’s fumbling, an instant’s 
delay and in that instant the girl recovered her balance. 
Her wits woke by instinct; it was intuition rather than 
conscious will that flung her arms round the friar’s neck 
as at last he heaved up his weapon, and, hanging all her 
weight upon him, she bore him back almost through the 
church door again, screaming to Alvano for help as she 
tightened her clasp to a strangle hold. For another vital 
instant they swayed, battling, then Bianca saw Alvano’s 
face, passionately fierce, across the friar’s shoulder, felt the 
rough thrust of his hand under her arm as he caught the 
Franciscan by the throat. 

“Stand aside — leave him to me,” said Alvano between 
his teeth. 

But now Bianca had another fear. The lean, half-naked 
arm threshing the air still held the knife in a clenched 


243 


THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD 

fist — Luca Alvano was in danger of his life. Freeing her 
arm-hold she reached upward, straining to her fullest 
height, caught the tense wrist and with all her strength 
wrenched it back till for very pain the grip relaxed and the 
weapon fell clanging on the tessera pavement ; then, breath- 
less, she staggered to the pillared balustrade and clung to 
its rail, half spent with the strong emotion. Roughly, 
savagely, Alvano thrust the monk back into the single 
beyond the chapel door and held him there, choking. 

“Loose him,” said Frederick curtly; then, as Alvano 
hesitated, <f loose him,” he repeated, “his sting’s drawn.” 
For a moment he stood silent, facing the Franciscan still 
panting for breath, a storm of strangled coughs fighting 
with the effort. “The spirit of the Church, if not her 
hand,” he said with bitter contempt. “Now, monk, the 
truth, if truth is in you — who suborned you to this plot ?” 
He paused, but there was no answer, nor for the moment, 
was an answer possible. Brother Cornelius, limp and ex- 
hausted, half leaning against the balustrade, was tearing at 
the breast of his frock, groping for air. Deliberately the 
Emperor prolonged the pause; Arsoli was dimly to be seen 
crossing the floor of the church towards the open door. “A 
plot,” repeated Frederick, “a plot conceived in lies and 
baited with blasphemy ” 

Then the Franciscan found speech. “No — no— -you were 
purged — cleansed — absolved — Herod though you are the 
soul would not perish with the body — God would give you 
to me for my hire.” 

“So that was the plot! You poor fool! But the lie 
remained ?” 

“Herod!” said the monk, drawing a long breath pain- 
fully, “Herod ! What truth should be kept with Herod ?” 
He drew himself up, flinging out an arm in a gesture not 
without dignity. “Was mine the only lie? How often 
have you lied to God? The Crusade? There will be no 


244 GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


Crusade! There can be no Crusade while Herod lives. 
Who is the liar, Herod the forsworn, Herod the consorter 
with Mahound, Herod the woman-hunter — the seducer, 
Herod — ” he choked, coughing. 

“Take him hence, Alvano,” said the Emperor, harshly, 
“take him hence and bid them hang him at sunset.” 

But Arsoli stood framed in the church door. From the 
threshold he stretched out an arm across the monk’s breast. 

“As God lives — no!” His face was set in defiance, his 
voice harsher, harder, than Frederick’s own. “He is the 
Church’s by benefit of clergy.” 

“The Church’s? Aye, the Church’s true son in spirit — 
so I said,” retorted the Emperor. “But in body he is mine, 
and as God lives mine he shall be though Gregory’s very 
robe covered him. Hence with him, Alvano; you know 
where to find me later.” 

But Arsoli, never shifting an inch, held his arm rigid. 
“Do you defy the Church ?” 

“Do you defy justice? Look what lies at your foot, 
Lord Bishop — the assassin’s knife! Do you claim benefit 
of clergy for the knife? Church or justice? As God lives, 
justice ! Have him hence, Alvano ; were his whole Order in 
his rope he shall hang.” 

“I warn you — ” began Arsoli. 

“Aye, and I am warned indeed — by the knife 1”' 

“I appeal to the Holy Father.” 

“And I appeal to God !” With an effort Frederick con- 
trolled his anger. “Lord Bishop, we shall talk of this later ; 
here is neither time nor place. Alvano, my order stands.” 

There was an instant’s dramatic pause, an instant of 
tense danger as Alvano, reaching past Arsoli’s outstretched 
arm, laid his hand on the monk’s shoulder. Force — vio- 
lence — might precipitate a rupture with Eome, yet behind 
stood Frederick, pale but determined. Then the bishop’s 
arm relaxed. 


THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD 


245 


“You have done wrong, my son, greatly wrong,” he said, 
his eyes on the friar. “But the Church does not abandon 
her children even when they err,” then he turned on his 
heel and re-entered the chapel. In silence Alvano led the 
Franciscan into the palace. 

Frederick laid a hand on Bianca’s shoulder. “I owe you 
a life,” he said; “it may be that before all’s ended Sicily 
will owe you no less. Come, there is much to be done, and 
great haste needed in the doing.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


For Love of the People 

With brows knit, his shoulders rounded, his chin on his 
chest, his hands locked behind his back, Frederick de- 
scended to the garden in silence. It was characteristic 
of his active mental energy that already his thoughts were 
far from the scene of the loggia, groping after its possible 
consequences. How did this foiled assassination touch 
Sicily and the Empire? Could he, because of it, claim 
absolution from his oath? Or, if that was too much, 
could he use it as a lever, a plausible excuse, to turn aside 
the Crusade and force time from a reluctant Church? 
That was the important question and it kept him silent. 
It was not that he was ungrateful to Bianca Pandone, but 
words of thanks could wait. 

Frederick was a man who thought rapidly, forcing his 
way without pause to a decision, let the conclusion be right 
or wrong. And his decision was that he could not fasten 
blame on the Church, could not prove a complicity which 
would warrant protest, and, because of the protest, delay. 
Against whom could he allege complicity ? Arsoli ? Arsoli 
might be trusted to keep his hands clean before the world. 
Gregory? Hot for a moment did he associate Gregory 
with the monk’s murderous attempt. When Gregory hurled 
an enemy to destruction it would be by open war, or the 
lightning bolt of the Church’s denunciation, launched from 
Saint Peter’s Chair. No ! he could see no way to turn the 
attempt to his advantage. 

Perhaps it was under some subtle law of contrasts, but 
246 


FOR LOVE OF THE PEOPLE 


247 


Bianca, as she passed down the fan of marble steps at the 
Emperor’s side, thought she had never known the gardens 
so full of peace. No breath of wind stirred the leafage, 
the air was sweet with the perfume of the orange grove, 
bees by the hundred droned among the blossoms, garnering 
the acid-sweet honey. And in spirit she was well content. 
What woman, who had come through such a crowded hour, 
could fail to be well content? 

The Emperor held Luca Alvano’s passion of loyal wor- 
ship, to him the Emperor was Sicily ; and she had saved the 
Emperor’s life. Frederick’s obligation? She never gave 
a thought to Frederick’s obligation. It was Luca Alvano’s 
obligation, Luca Alvano’s gratitude, Luca Alvano’s praise 
to come that set her heart singing in tune with the Fran- 
ciscan’s little feathered brothers, still pouring out their 
matin song from the upper branches. Surely she did well 
to be content ! Where can love find a purer gladness than 
to be praised by the heart of love? 

At the sundial Frederick halted and, laying his arm upon 
the flat, faced the girl. 

“The essence and message of it all is — haste. It may 
be I was wrong to withstand Arsoli with such heat while 
so much hung in the balance : his tale in Rome may be the 
make-weight that turns the scale against us — not wrong in 
justice; in justice I am right and Arsoli knows it, but 
wrong in policy. Bianca, we must forestall that venomous 
priest: you must leave for Rome without delay.” 

“How, Your Grace?” 

Here was a swift shattering of her content, but she 
cried out no protest. Even while the Emperor spoke she 
saw the need; Gregory’s permission to postpone the Cru- 
sade must be secured before Arsoli’s version of that morn- 
ing’s doings reached him. To challenge Gregory’s author- 
ity was to waken his bitter opposition to the fullest, nor 
would the justice of the challenge move the obstinate Pope. 


248 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“How?” he repeated. “Yes, that is the question.” He 
relapsed into thought a moment but almost instantly roused 
himself, laying a hand familiarly on her shoulder. “But 
the way is not so clear as it was, nor so smooth. That 
lying monk was to have burst a barrier for us — Gregory, 

placated, might be complacent, now !” With his free 

arm Frederick made a gesture of despair, a gesture that 
ended in the hand falling on Bianca’s other shoulder and 
resting there. “Now, Bianca, after this morning’s wicked- 
ness, I am afraid for you.” It was then that Alvano, bidden 
seek the Emperor where he knew he would find him, 
entered the lower edge of the glade beyond the pool of 
Egypt and halted, seeing the two by the sundial. 

“For me, Your Grace?” 

“Yes: the hand that struck at me would not shrink 
from striking at a woman.” 

“The monk? But, Your Grace, Luca — your orders ” 

“The monk? No, no: the monk was the tool only. 
The hand ? Perhaps Arsoli — who knows ! But in Rome — 
on the road to Rome, there would be no pity for a woman 
on such an errand as yours. Bianca, you are too dear to — 

Sicily ” But at the wave of colour that swept Bianca’s 

cheeks at — as she supposed — the hinted reference to Luca 
Alvano Frederick shifted ground, his voice roughening. 
“Pity ? Pity’s not in them and I’ll show none. The monk 
hangs — so much for their benefit of clergy !” 

In his sudden gust of indignation the Emperor turned up 
the slope as if to relieve his wrath by movement, but at the 
pleading in the girl’s voice as she answered he paused. 

“Ah ! Your Grace, show the poor wretch mercy : he is 
dying on his feet, nor can it be long — let him so die.” 

“Do you excuse him ?” 

“God forbid ! But is the poor life of the poor tool worth 
Frederick's vengeance? I have spoken with him scores of 
times— the gentlest spirit, blood-brother to the little harm- 


249 


FOR LOVE OF THE PEOPLE 

less birds. It was a madness in him — not himself. Your 
Grace, Your Grace, be the great Frederick of Sicily’s love 
and pride ” 

“You do love Sicily, I think?” 

“Love! to my heart’s blood!” The Emperor, she 
thought, was yielding, and in her earnestness she almost 
cried the words. 

“Is he not guilty ?” 

“Have we not all sinned? Are we not forgiven as we 
forgive ?” 

“But I have sworn an oath.” 

“An oath in haste, an oath in anger, an oath not to God 
nor to your own soul, no true man’s oath — an oath wrongly 
taken is an oath splendid in the breaking !” 

Returning, Frederick again laid a hand upon her 
shoulder. “Bianca, do you ask this thing of me — you — 
you ?” 

“Your Grace, let me go to His Holiness with the monk’s 
pardon in my mouth — let me say. This is the greatness of 
Sicily, to lose justice in mercy, to ” 

“They will say I am afraid.” 

“They will say! They will say! What is that but a 
sneer to frighten a coward to courage, but a nothing — . 
nothing to the man who knows and honours himself.” 

“You ask it, Bianca?” 

“Yes, Your Grace, I ask it — I have known the man.” 

“Then take his life — you, who have given me life to-day.” 
Stooping he touched her forehead with his lips, then link- 
ing an arm in hers he drew her up the slope toward the 
further shadows while Luca Alvano, in the shade below the 
Egyptian pool, grit his teeth and cursed. Cursed whom? 
He scarcely knew, but in his wide anathema he did not 
spare himself. 

“Ah, Your Grace,” the tremor in Bianca’s voice told how 
deeply she was stirred, “that is your great self: now that 


250 GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 


you have shown mercy we can hope that His Holiness will 
show favour.” 

But Frederick’s mood had changed. “That grey old 
wolf? Bianca, I grow more afraid — there is so much at 
stake.” 

“I know it,” she answered. “And I am so inadequate — 
I, a girl, ignorant, without skill in words to urge the need ; 

I, so unknown, so uninstructed, without authority ” 

She paused, thrilled by a sudden thought. Forgetting eti- 
quette, forgetting custom — everything but the wide, far- 
reaching possibilities of this new proposal, she laid a hand 
upon the Emperor’s arm as a man might to friend and fel- 
low-equal. At the significant familiarity, a familiarity he 
had never claimed or used in all his years of close associa- 
tion, a familiarity for which the world could find but one 
interpretation, Alvano groaned within himself. “Your 
Grace — oh, if I am a fool, pardon the folly for love’s sake — 
why should not the Emperor himself plead — no, not plead, 
Frederick does not stoop to plead : why not claim yourself 
the right of Sicily to grow strong and great under the guid- 
ance of her king ? Surely Gregory would listen ; is he not 
the father of us all? Is not Italy his very household of 
love and care? And who could so move that fatherly love 
like you — King, Emperor, yet servant and lover of your 
people? Oh, Your Grace, Your Grace ” 

“I?” said Frederick, blankly astonished, “I, go in state 
to Eome ” 

“No, Your Grace, no: the form and ceremony of state 
would stir Gregory to a refusal : it would exalt the Church 
as compared with the Empire: I can see that. But why 
not go as I would go — in secret, and as man to man, as son 
to father, move His Holiness to reconsideration.” 

“Always,” said Frederick, “I have thought you sane — 
saner than many men or any woman I have known, but now 
you are mad, utterly mad.” 


FOE LOVE OF THE PEOPLE 


251 


“Still sane, my King — since I am all Sicilian, Frederick, 
and Frederick only, is my King. Is it danger that you 
fear: not craven fear, but the care and guardianship a 
leader must have of himself for his people’s sake ? But you 
yourself have said Gregory, grey old wolf though he may be, 
is not one to strike except openly and as Pope. Fear, then, 
by the road? But here in your own palace, at the very 
door of God’s house, the threat menaced your life. What 
greater fear could there be on the road? And what is it, 
Capua to Eome and Eome to Capua ? Five days, riding as 
men can ride, six at the most? If the Emperor should be 
absent six days on Sicily’s business who dares question it? 
Della Vigna and Luca would fence their questioners and 
ask no questions themselves.” 

Carried away by her enthusiasm she had poured out her 
words in a torrent; now she paused for objection. But 
none came. Not once nor twice Frederick had been absent, 
and the discreet, knowing his Orientalism, had asked no 
questions : the Emperor, they guessed, was not alone in his 
seclusion, nor was what occupied him the business of Sicily. 
When he spoke again the Emperor no longer called her 
mad : rather he parleyed with her, posed difficulties : that is 
to say he did not answer with a flat no ! 

“But in Eome? The Emperor cannot knock, even at 
the Pope’s door, to beg an audience. Besides, need must 
that the secret be absolute.” 

“And what is my uncle, Pandome, for, but to play go- 
between — and make something for himself out of both 
sides, if I know him aright !” 

“But who could approach Pandone ?” 

“I, Your Grace, I, who would ride with you.” 

“You?” cried Frederick, as if he doubted his hearing. 

“Why not, your Grace? Where all Sicily trusts, aye, 
and all the Empire, why not I?” 

For a moment Frederick stood in silence, looking down 


252 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


into the warm-brown eyes that met his so fearlessly, so 
trustfully, so tranquilly, and yet with a greatness of purpose 
clear in their depths; then, very soberly, he stooped, and 
for the second time touched her forehead with his lips. 

“God be thanked for good women/ 5 he said solemnly. 
“How, Bianca, my sister, be silent and let me think/ 5 In 
the lower shadows, Luca Alvano, watching, almost wept for 
rage. 

There was much need for thought. The fate of half the 
world might turn on his decision. Was this the madness 
he had called it? Ho; looked at more deeply it was no 
more madness than any great idea the world at first sight 
fails to understand, and so condemns with unthinking con- 
tempt. Of such madnesses progress is made: that Luca 
Alvano should climb to St. Peter’s chair for the welding 
together of Italy into a national whole was such another 
splendid madness. Danger? Personal danger there was 
none. Gregory was a man of the sternest probity ; narrow, 
except in his conception of Church rights and there a bigot, 
but that he should degrade the sacred dignity of his holy 
office by private violence to a man who trusted him was 
unthinkable. 

On the other hand there was the possibility that Gregory, 
with his tremendous conception of the dignity and power 
of the Popedom, might be the very type to be won over by 
the secret appeal. Men love to have their power admitted, 
here was a confession of the Church’s strength, the Church’s 
power, as Arsoli had put it, to bless or curse. And Gior- 
dano Pandone was just the man to play broker between 
Church and Empire — already the Church and Gregory 
owed him a debt : could Gregory refuse his offices ? As to 
the Empire — Pandone would know the day must come, 
might come very speedily, when the friendship of the Em- 
pire would have its value in the Conclave. As to his week’s 
absence from Capua in secret, Bianca was right — della 


FOR LOYE OF THE PEOPLE 253 

Vigna and Alvano would ask no questions, and could be 
trusted to hold curiosity at arm’s length. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, it might be done.” 

“Not might but shall, Your Grace.” 

“But you? How could you ride as men ride? I mean 
in speed, in endurance, in facing hardship and fatigue ?” 

“I would strive hard to be no drag, no hindrance.” 

“Bianca, Bianca, how you must love Sicily !” 

“Yes,” she assented, very quietly, her thoughts going to 
Luca Alvano, “Yes, I love with all my heart and soul.” 

“I must think again.” This time the pause was briefer. 
“Pandone ? Are you sure of Pandone ?” 

“Yes, Your Highness, since it is to his interest. Does 
he not secure the powerful backing of the Empire ?” 

The Emperor laughed and Bianca breathed freer: the 
tension was relaxing now that Frederick could laugh as of 
old. 

“Perhaps,” he asnwered, “but it depends in part on 
Gregory and in part on Alvano.” 

“On His Holiness and Luca ?” 

“Capua has its secrets as well as Pome! Once Alvano 
is a priest ■” 

“Luca a priest?” For the moment there was only 
astonishment in her voice, incredulity, incomprehension, 
a doubt whether she had caught the words aright. 

“You think he has no vocation? Not the very highest, 
perhaps; not spiritual devotion, but the next best — love 
for the people.” 

“Love for — the people ? Luca, a priest ? I can’t 
understand.” 

“No, how could you, not knowing what impels him. 
Some might call it another madness, but not I. It was his 
own proposing. We have kept it a secret between us, but 
you have earned the right to share the secret. It was a 
great thought, the greatest in the world. Alvano will 


254 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

become a priest and strive to climb to Peter’s chair that 
he and I, working together, may raise Italy above her 
factions and set her in her proper place among the nations. 
Eor that Sicily must be strong ; as you said, there is much 
at stake — more than you imagined.” 

“More than I imagined — the greatest thought in the 
world — Luca, a priest.” With a brain still numb she 
echoed the phrases with the dull reiteration of incompre- 
hension. “Luca, a priest?” she repeated more warmly; 
then broke out, “how long, Your Grace, has this great 
purpose been Luca’s goal in life?” 

“He went to Rome to further it.” 

“He went to Rome to further it?” Rapidly her mind 
worked backward. There, in the atrium — at the house of 
Susanna Ligorio — when he joined Ursula Crescenzo’s litter 
outside the walls of Rome — as he rode by her side through 
the long, bright days of Sicily’s glorious April, he had been 
priest in all but name : a priest devoted though not already 
vowed. True, he had never said, I love you ! No ! he had 
spared her that infamy. But he had let her slip aside her 
woman’s mask of modest reticence, laying bare her heart, 
and that itself w r as an infamy in a priest. At the memory 
the girl grew hotly passionate and passionately hot — a 
woman to avow her love to a priest ! what shame could be 
greater in her, or infamy in him? Suddenly she laughed, 
but not as Bianca Pandone should. 

“Surely, Your Grace, that ends all doubt? Where he 
went to further his priesting let us go also. And there is 
much need for haste: you yourself have said so. Let us 
ride out to-day— this very hour.” 

“Bianca, have you considered ” 

“Your Grace, do I matter — have I ever mattered? No! 
never! Not for an hour! Sicily first and Sicily last — 
Sicily always, but I never understood it as I do now.” 

“Men will talk ■” 


FOR LOVE OF THE PEOPLE 


255 


**Let them talk ! My soul is my own, no man can touch 
it ! Your Grace, already Arsoli may have men on the way 
to Rome — there is great need for haste, great need to leave 
Capua.” 

“Then in God’s name let us go! Never was there a 
braver woman, never a more selfless, never one more 
staunch to her love.” Lifting her hand he touched it with 
his lips. “Have no fear, Bianca, my sister.” 

“I never had fear,” she answered; “Your Grace, I will 
keep my chamber till I hear from you; but, oh, let there 
be no delay — I am sick to be on the road to Rome.” 

“In two hours,” he said. “Sooner is impossible ; I must 
see della Yigna or Alvano ” 

“I shall be waiting : already my heart is out of Capua.” 

“In two hours,” he repeated, and turned away in the 
direction of the private door. 

Until Frederick disappeared, hidden by a thicket bor- 
dering a side path, Bianca lingered among the upper 
shadows; then, and in haste, she turned down the slope 
whereon stood the sundial. Bred among the peasants of 
Malazzorbo her instincts were largely primitive: she was 
wounded to the quick — not to the death, she was of too 
robust and wholesome a nature for such a hurt to be a 
death-wound — and the primitive in her bade her find the 
comforting power of solitude where she might nurse her 
hurt : the two hours of inaction would be passed in her own 
chamber, alone with God’s pity. 

But Alvano met her, barring her passage with out- 
stretched hands. Before he spoke she guessed his thoughts 
from the square set of his mouth, from the storm in his 
eyes : at the tower of Stephani Petri his passion had been 
hot, but never such passion as the strong light of the morn- 
ing picked out on his changed face. 

“Oh!” he cried, “accursed blood of the Pandoni to 
turn a Caldora wanton because an Emperor beckoned!” 


256 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“A lie !” she flashed hack, her eyes as stormy, her anger 
as rough-throated as his own. 

(( A lie? Am I blind?” 

“No ! It is I who am blind — I who mistook the cunning 
of a priest for the faith of a simple gentleman.” 

He winced at the gentle gibe bitterly delivered but let it 
pass unanswered, too intent on what, to him, was a greater 
matter. 

“Bianca, are you not in Sicily for this very thing?” 

“What very thing?” 

“To snare the Emperor to the profit of Rome.” 

“Yes,” she answered, looking him unflinchingly in the 
eyes, “yes, what then?” 

“And you have succeeded while I — all the while I wor- 
shipped you ” 

“You worshipped me? You! You, a priest! By what 
right ?” 

He let the question pass as he had let the gibe ; indeed, 
the question was in a sense a gibe as bitter as the last and 
as barbed. 

“And you — ah! dear God! What have you given in 
return ?” 

“Are you already a priest that I should make confession 
to you?” she mocked. Then she grew colder. “Stand 
to one side; henceforth I go my way — do ym go yours, 
wherever it may lead you.” 

She was magnificent as she swept past him, magnificent 
in her scorn, magnificent in her passionate beauty, magnifi- 
cent in her straight carriage and strength of indignant 
youth. Magnificent, too, in her self control: Agata, meet- 
ing her mistress in the corridor, thought she had never seen 
her so much a woman of Capua’s great world, so much a 
dominant part of the palace life. There, the maid told 
herself, there went success. But with the door bolted fast 
between her and the eyes of the world nature claimed the 


FOR LOVE OF THE PEOPLE 


257 


victory. Her firm, imperious will snapped like a hollow 
reed, her joints loosened under her, and she sank upon the 
floor in a heap against the nearest couch, weeping as she 
had not wept even when her mother died. 

Two hours later she rode out of Capua by the north gate, 
and if she was paler than nature none made comment. 
Nor was it thought strange that Frederick went unat- 
tended. Court ceremony never bound the Emperor ; in all 
such things he was a law unto himself. 

What happened thereafter may be told in few sen- 
tences. 

The afternoon was far advanced when Alvano learned 
the news of the Emperor’s absence from della Yigna, and 
not till an hour later was Bianca’s name whispered about 
the palace. Then Ursula di Crescenzo questioned Agata, 
Crescenzo and Alvano being present, and the tire-woman, 
frightened and malicious, told all she knew, suppressing 
her own original deception, but adding, after the habit of 
her kind, her evil surmises as if they, too, were knowledge. 
Silently she was listened to, briefly further questioned, 
curtly bidden go: then Ursula turned to her husband. 

“A plot behind your back ! What did I tell you on your 
way from Rome ? Watch the girl ! If there is a woman in 
all Sicily who knows whether the Crusade will sail I wager 
it is Bianca Pandone.” 

Promptly Alvano also turned upon Crescenzo, his hand 
significantly on his sword hilt. “The lady is my cousin,” he 
said. “Being a woman the signora, your wife, is privileged. 
Do you, lord count, who are a man, adopt her foul sugges- 
tion?” His voice was rough with the will to offend as his 
sore heart leaped at the hope that inaction was done with : 
here was one not too great to be called to account. That 
Crescenzo was innocent of blame mattered nothing. 

Fortunately Crescenzo was cool in his self control, for- 
tunately, too, he was secure in his reputation for courage ; 


258 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


also, he recognized the true root of Alvano’s willingness to 
give insult. 

“But I, too, though a man, claim privilege/’ he answered 
smiling, but with grave eyes. “Am I not His Holiness’s 
envoy?” Then he laid a hand on Alvano’s shoulder. 
“Almost I am old enough to be your father — aye, more 
than almost. No woman should spoil a man’s life. If she 
is a good woman she will not, come what may; if a bad, 
she’s not worth it. Alvano of the Arno ford, do your man’s 
work in the world : God knows your kind is needed.” And 
Luca Alvano had the sense to take and grip the hand held 
out to him. 

Through the hours of a wakeful night he turned the 
injunction over in his mind. Do your man’s work in the 
world. And coupled with it was Bianca’s last hard-flung 
farewell, Henceforth I go on my own way — do you go 
yours, wherever it may lead you. In essence the two were 
one: a man’s true way in the world is doing the world’s 
work to the best that is in him, no matter where it may 
lead. The world ? Eor him the world was more than ever 
Sicily, and if his work for Sicily led through sacrifice it 
was his work none the less — more, rather, since by sacrifice 
a man may win redemption from despair. 

With the first of the morning he rode north for Rome 
and the laying on of hands for the priesthood. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Northward to Rome 

So long as they were within view of Capua the Emperor 
and Bianca rode slowly, nor even when the city was hidden 
did they push their horses at any great pace. With such a 
length of journey before them it was clearly their wisdom 
to hasten slowly and so conserve their beasts’ strength that 
there should be no floundering by the way. 

While still in the streets of Capua, and passing the gates, 
they had talked gaily as at other times, but once in the 
open country, where it was no longer necessary to play a 
part, they fell silent by mutual consent. And they had 
cause for silence. Frederick, whether he knew it or not, 
was throwing for the greatest stake of his life, while Bianca 
had already played her cast and lost. Her purpose was 
quite settled in her mind; she would aid the Emperor to 
the utmost in Rome, see him safely beyond the walls on his 
return, then go back to Malazzorbo — Cosimo Rivara, an 
honourable gentleman, would keep his word and make it 
easy for her : Tita Sirano’s warm heart of loyal, patient love 
would grow glad with her coming. 

But Bianca, being country bred, had that memory for a 
path once travelled which belongs to the peasant, and 
presently she drew her rein. 

‘‘Your Grace, we came from Rome by the road on the 
right.” 

“Yes, but we go by that on the left. It is the shorter. 
It runs through the Maritima and is the quicker where 

there is no litter. Do you trust me ?” 

259 


260 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“Would I be here if I did not?” she answered and 
rode on. 

“Thank God for that! And Bianca, let there be no 
more ‘Your Grace/ since we are brother and sister.” 

That night their quarters were at the Locanda del Gallo 
in Trayetto. Nowhere in her ride through the Marches 
with Rivara had Bianca found so wretched an inn. But 
though the sole supper it could provide was a mess of fish 
cooked in oil neither complained ; Frederick, indeed, made a 
jest of the discomforts, as a soldier might of the hardships 
of a campaign — they are part of the day’s work. There was 
but one sleeping chamber : it was given over to Bianca, the 
Emperor passing the night on a settle in the common room. 

Thence, with the same dawn that saw Alvano quit Capua, 
they rode out for Fondi. Here, again, was a new world for 
Bianca had she but had the spirit to enter in and possess 
it. Such-like ^purs of hills, now wooded, now arid and 
stony, as strayed down from the east she knew of old; but 
the blue waters to the vest, waters storm-whipped by a keen 
mistral to a tuimoil of tossing crests that broke in creamy 
white patches against the vivid sapphire, to form again and 
roll thundering on the shore, she had neither seen before 
nor dreamed of. Faintly the beauty and the newness stirred 
her; but if her eyes brightened under the cool, searching 
buffet of the salt-laden wind they dulled again even while 
the smell of the brine was in her nostrils. Frederick said 
nothing, but he squared his shoulders and filled his lungs 
greedily, as a man who is a man and loves the wild freedom 
of the sea will at such a time. 

At Fondi they dined. Thence the road rose steeply, 
climbing through a hill pass by such a zig-zag ascent of 
abrupt turns that it was easy to understand why Marco di 
Crescenzo, with a litter in charge, had chosen the longer 
route from Rome. At the crest of the ridge Frederick halted. 

“Terracina,” he said, pointing to a cluster of grey houses 


NORTHWARD TO ROME 


261 


straggling up the slope of the coast line to the left. “That 
ruin above it is a temple of Venus, and from the summit 
of that hill beyond, Monte Circes, one can catch a hint of 
Rome — the cross of St. Peter’s.” Presently, at the foot 
of the hill, he spoke again. “This is the ancient Via Appia 
— Rome’s handiwork everywhere ! Pray God I keep that 
hand off Sicily.” 

At Piperno they made no halt but pushed on through a 
wooded country to Sezze, the Pontine Marshes stretching 
on their left almost to the sea. It was not, perhaps, “riding 
as men ride,” but already Bianca had grown pinched and 
white, and Frederick dared not try her strength more 
severely lest nature fail. She had ridden from Malazzorbo 
to Rome with less distress, but now the burden of the spirit 
bore heavily on the flesh. 

Again the lodgings were wretched and both found the 
roughness of the road, as they took horse in the early light, 
a relief from the night’s miseries. The Marshes were still 
upon their left, a weary monotony merging into the 
Maremma, until at Cisterna there came a welcome change. 
There they halted for the mid-day meal. Sicily had long 
since been left behind for the Patrimony of Saint Peter. 

“It is the ancient Tres Tabernae,” said Frederick speak- 
ing of the town, “Tres Tabernae, where Rome sent out to 
welcome holy Paul — whom presently it slew ! God grant 
that my appeal to Cassar may be happier.” 

“Then it was Nero •” began Bianca, but Frederick 

interrupted her. 

“And I am no Paul: the parallel is unprofitable.” 
Nevertheless, the parallel stuck in both their minds. 

The inn was vastly different from any they had met 
with upon their journey, possibly because Romans still 
came thus far along the Appian Way to greet their friends. 
It was to the host himself that Frederick paid the reckon- 
ing: like all innkeepers the man loved a gossip. 


262 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“For Rome, signor?” 

“For Rome,” assented the Emperor. “What news of 
the city ? We are from the south.” 

“And have ridden far — no offence, signor?” 

“Far : our baggage train is on the road.” 

“Oh, signor, that is no affair of mine, but ” and the 

host paused, pushing the coins hither and thither on the 
table doubtfully. 

“But?” repeated Frederick civilly, and waited. 

“I know a man’s tongue may earn him more than his 
pay,” said the landlord, ‘Tut there is the signora to be 
thought of. Signor, if I were you I would push on and 
enter the city in good daylight or sleep outside the walls: 
the Aquila Nero is a good house.” 

“Why?” 

“Signor, you understand it is no affair of mine, and in 
my trade we hear all sides. Of the rights of it I know noth- 
ing, but they say Rome is ■” he paused, jingling the 

silver, “restless, signor, restless.” 

“Why?” repeated Frederick. 

“No offence either way, signor, but they say the Holy 
Father has a heavy hand, and the Romans — well, Romans 
are Romans.” 

“And you think good daylight ” 

“Is wisest, for the signora’s sake, when the streets are in 
a turmoil: yes, signor. My cousin’s house, the Aquila 
Nero ” 

“Oh, it is your cousin’s house?” 

The landlord looked Frederick fairly in the face. “No, 
signor, that’s not the reason.” He paused again, pushing 
out a doubtful lip, then added, “I’ve heard said there’s been 
murder done — now if you know Rome you know as much 
as I do.” 

“Murder ? But in Rome there’s a murder every 
week ?” 


NORTHWARD TO ROME 


263 


“Not such murder as this, signor. I can say no more.” 

“Thanks for your warning, my friend.” The Emperor 
nodded, and, deep in thought, joined Bianca. 

Yes, he knew Rome and he knew Gregory. When flint 
strikes steel sparks must fly. Helped by Alvano’s reports 
and his own knowledge it was not difficult to guess at what 
had happened — the imperious. Church-proud spirit of the 
Rope had wearied of scattering donatives among a people 
never to be satisfied ; Rome had grumbled, clamouring, and 
grown so insistent in its discontent that Gregory, moved 
by the same spirit, had flung censures even more lavishly 
than he had largesse, and then Rome had been Rome — 
there had been murder done; probably, Frederick thought, 
the Papal Guard had suffered. 

Without hesitation he told Bianca of the warning and his 
own surmises ; they rode as comrades and she had an equal 
right to the knowledge. 

“The horses are too tired for haste,” he ended. “In any 
case when Rome is on the prowl a broadening day is safer 
than a falling dusk.” 

“Oh, Your Grace,” she cried, a spot of colour reddening 
her cheeks, “there is danger and I have led you into it.” 

“Danger? No! Not to me. The louder they curse 
Gregory the faster they would fly to my help if I called 
‘God and the Empire V as Alvano did on the day of the 
procession. You heard him?” 

“Yes,” she answered, her emotion dying, chilled and 
killed by the mention of Alvano’s name, “yes, I heard 
him.” 

Full of his own thought Frederick laughed. “God and 
the Empire ! What will Rome say when it hears that cry 
in a Pope’s mouth ! A great thought, the very greatest : 
Alvano’s own thought, too. And yet, it is strange, but he 
had grown cold upon it when he returned from Rome, so 
cold that I challenged him that very night — was there a 


264 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

woman? the one woman in the world whose love would be 
greater than the greatest ? But — he said no.” 

“No,” said Bianca, still stonily, “I suppose there was 
no woman.” 

This time the Emperor’s attention was roused. Trained 
from his youth to read the subtle inflexions of a voice as 
indications of the hidden spirit, his ear had caught a mean- 
ing in the cold level of the girl’s tone, and he glanced across 
at her. She sat very erect, her head held high, her face set 
like marble, her eyes fixed straight before her. 

No woman? But, Frederick asked himself, could she 
have said there was no man ? What a ring of unbelief, of 
protest, had been in her cry, Luca Alvano a priest? a cry 
repeated again and again; pain, keen pain, the pain of a 
mortal hurt was clearer with every repetition. At the 
moment, preoccupied with his own uncertainties, he had 
given the cry no heed, but now it came back to him in its 
growing poignancy, Luca Alvano, a priest ! 

And other memories crowded in for confirmation of the 
cry’s significance. She had known Alvano in Rome, had 
travelled with him to Capua, spent the warm spring days 
in his company : where Bianca Pandone was there also was 
Alvano. Cousins? Had she found more than cousin- 
ship? found it without seeking it, as such things are best 
found? found it not knowing Alvano had pledged himself 
to the priesthood for Sicily’s sake? That would account 
for her eager haste to leave Capua within the hour, that 
would account for many things — that she was now all 
Sicilian, for one, though she had come from Rome on the 
Church’s errand. 

But when he looked a second time her face had changed. 
The set stoniness had melted and there was colour in the 
marble, though she still looked straight before her between 
her horse’s ears. There was life, too, in her voice. 

“Luca was pledged to silence?” 


NORTHWARD TO ROME 


265 


“Yes” 

“Before even he went to Rome ?” 

“Yes” 

“And” this time the question came stumblingly, “he 
was more doubtful on his return?” 

“Yes, more than doubtful — unwilling.” 

“Thank you, I think I understand now.” For a moment 
she paused, uncertain whether or not she would speak her 
mind ; then she added, very deliberately, “Your Grace, if a 
Pope ever cries, God and the Empire, he will not be Luca 
Alvano.” 

“In God’s name, why not?” cried Frederick, startled. 

“Because Luca Alvano is an honourable gentleman ! 
How, then, could he sell the Church to the Empire ? Gior- 
dano Pandone might, but never Luca Alvano ! The higher 
he climbs the clearer he will see that he cannot — but he 
will still be a priest.” The voice that had risen to a note of 
triumph died away, and the last words ended in a whisper 
as if she spoke to herself alone. 

Frederick rode on in silence. Back came Frangipani’s 
prophecy, There will never be a Ghibelline Pope ! Back, 
too, came his own estimate of Gregory, that from the height 
of Saint Peter’s Chair he would have a changed vision. 
With that shrewdness he had always admired Bianca had 
put her finger on the inherent weakness of the scheme: 
strip the greatness from the conception and it left naked a 
betrayal of the Church’s ideals — could Alvano betray the 
Church that set her crown upon his head ? To that Bianca 
answered an emphatic no ! 

But what, he wondered, had sharpened the girl’s insight 
into Alvano’s character? Love? But love is blind, here 
was clear vision: and yet at times it is the world that is 
blind, and love alone has eyes to see. But that is when 
the thing to be discovered is spiritual. He pushed the 
question home as only he might. 


266 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Bianca, what is Luca Alvano to you?” 

She turned on him passionately, almost fiercely, “By 
what right ” 

“By a double right,” he interrupted, “by the right of a 
friend to both, and also as — but I do not wish to press the 
second.” 

But the girl’s answer showed that she understood. 
“Your Highness, Luca is my cousin.” 

“And nothing more?” 

“Can a priest be more?” she answered bitterly. 

“Three days ago what was he — before you knew he was 
a priest-to-be?” 

The hardness melted as her eyes grew soft and wistful. 
“The truest gentleman — and he is so still. Too true for 
my peace.” 

Frederick probed no deeper. Nor was there need: the 
self -revelation was sufficient. But one thing he asked him- 
self — If Alvano were questioned again, after these weeks 
in Sicily, would he still say there was no woman? 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Rome Strikes Back 

That night they lay in comfort at the Aquila Nero, half 
an hour’s ride from the San Giovanni gate. The inn 
thrived, Frederick judged, chiefly upon two classes — belated 
travellers who failed to reach the city before the closing of 
the gates, and jovial Romans who for six months of the 
year ventured thus far to dine or sup away from the 
stifling air and heat of Rome’s narrow streets. 

That night there was none of the former, and with the 
closing in of dusk the latter returned to the city. But 
though thus left the sole guests of the inn, Frederick did 
not find the host communicative. Perhaps living nearer to 
the heavy hand of both Pope and Senator had taught him 
caution. As his cousin had said, A man’s tongue may earn 
more than his pay. Riots ? No, he had heard of no rioting. 
Discontent ? 

“Ah, signor,” he protested, fencing the question, “is there 
such a thing as content anywhere in the world ! Here is 
the Aquila Nero empty, save for the signora and your 
honourable self — does that make for content!” 

“But your cousin spoke of murder?” 

The landlord spread out his hands in appeal. “Mur- 
der?” he echoed, still in protest. “I ask you, signor, in a 
city like Rome may there not be murders and I know 
nothing of them?” 

“Then Rome is tranquil?” 

“Tranquil as usual, signor.” And with that ambiguity 
267 


268 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


Frederick had to be satisfied, conscious all the while that 
the answer was as double-edged as any ancient oracle. 

There are many silences — the grim silence of despair, of 
sorrow without words, of unutterable joy; silences where 
life is at its emptiest ; silence where it is too full for speech. 
Bianca could not have told which of these weighed dumbly 
on her, the fulness of memory or the emptiness of the days 
to come, as she rode out on the final stage of her journey, 
but with the spires and towers of Rome clear in the morn- 
ing light she had no heart for many words. 

Nor was the Emperor more inclined to talk. Since leav- 
ing Capua he had spoken little, and now as events drew to a 
decision his mind was full of the crisis which must culmi- 
nate within the next few hours. Delay in Rome was danger- 
ous, too dangerous for prolonged negotiation to be possible ; 
a single interview with Gregory must force a decision. The 
Pope was himself too high-minded to condescend to vio- 
lence, but in blind unreason some fanatic might strike and 
succeed where one had already struck and failed; a single 
day behind the walls of Rome was the limit of prudence. 

Where the highway forked, leading on the left to the 
Porta Latina and on the right to the gate of San Giovanni, 
Frederick halted. Which branch should they follow ? 
Unhesitatingly Bianca chose the latter. It led, she re- 
membered, past the Lateran where she had said farewell to 
Emilia ; thence, with her peasant’s intuition for roads once 
traversed, she could find her way to the Pandone palace; 
to avoid questioning was their wisdom. 

And now, his soldier’s instinct fully roused, the Emperor 
threw off his preoccupation. It was not his first visit by 
several to the Eternal City, but he had never so ap- 
proached it. 

In Rome there were elements which always must be 
antagonistic; elements which might set the good faith of 
the Pope at defiance. Just because delay in the city was 


ROME STRIKES BACK 


269 


dangerous it was necessary he should know his line of 
retreat. Therefore he noted every land-mark, every turn 
of the road, fixing Riem and their order in his memory. 

“What church is that ?” he asked. 

Bianca paused before answering. Even while he spoke 
her eyes had been on the curious tall, yet slender, square 
tower which served both as spire and campanile, or, rather, 
on the lance imposed upon its cross in symbol of the saint’s 
martyrdom. Cosimo Rivara had pointed it out from the 
brow of the hill the night she first saw Rome. Now the 
church had a significance which then had passed her by. 

“It is San Tommaso,” she said at last. 

“San Tommaso ?” Alvano had spoken of San Tommaso, 
and the Emperor searched his memory. “Yes, I remember 
now; the Church of the Vigils? I wonder why the Church 
of the Vigils is San Tommaso?” 

“Perhaps it is only after much doubt, and many search- 
ings of heart, that men dare say Dominus mens et Deus 
>meus/’ she answered, her voice steadily under control as 
she quoted the inscription above the great doorway; then 
she rode on. 

They passed the gates with no more serious challenge 
than a close scrutiny, but Frederick’s experience told him 
that the guards were increased beyond the normal watch- 
fulness of ever watchful Rome. If there had been no riot 
as yet there was evident unrest, and Angelo di Benincasa, 
the senator, would invite no turbulence by any show of 
weakness. 

And the further they pushed into the city these signs of 
vigilant precaution and the need for them increased. At 
every crossed street, in every open space such as the Piazza 
of San Clemente or beneath the walls of the Colosseum, sol- 
diers of the Republic were in force; while up its narrow 
lanes, in its dens and rookeries, its hidden plague-spots of 
vice and wretchedness, Rome buzzed like an angry hive. 


270 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

Riots? Perhaps none as yet. Discontent? "Without the 
shadow of a doubt. Frederick read the signs in grim satis- 
faction. With sedition seething to outbreak at his doors 
Gregory might more readily make terms with the Empire. 

Beyond the Capitoline the crowd had so increased in the 
streets that to ride abreast was impossible. Naturally, 
Frederick pushed to the front to force a passage, and 
Bianca, following, could not but admire his unfailing self- 
control. Jostled and impeded at every step, sometimes of 
necessity, sometimes in provocation, he never once lost his 
temper, but threaded his way through the shifting, sullen, 
loosely-packed mob with an easy good humour that won 
advance where arrogance or curt command must have ended 
in disaster. 

As they approached the Via Paparone the crowd sensibly 
thinned, and the leavening of soldiery, mingled now with 
men of the Papal Guard, just as sensibly increased, until, 
entering the street itself, they found the passage absolutely 
barred by armed men. Here they were challenged in 
earnest, but while Frederick parleyed Bianca heard her 
name called from further up the street and saw Jacopo 
hastening towards them. 

“Ah, signorina, signorina,” he cried, as, the barrier 
broken, the horses moved forward again, “what misfor- 
tune brings you to Rome at such a time? But follow on, 
while I go and tell Signor Cosimo of your coming.” 

Bianca turned to the Emperor. “Misfortune? Why 
misfortune ?” 

But Frederick shook his head. “See,” he said, “there 
is a second guard blocking the further end of the street. 
I fear Rome is at odds with the Cardinal.” 

“Then it is ’Sandro’s doing; ’Sandro is always so hot- 
headed.” It was then that Rivara joined them, and, full 
of her thought, Bianca waited for no greeting but cried 
“’Sandro! It is ’Sandro!” 


SOME STRIKES BACK 271 

“Yea” said Rivara gravely, “it is ’Sandro.” Then his 
gaze shifted to Frederick and he started. 

“’Sandro!” she repeated, “what has ’Sandro done?” 

“Oh, you mistake,” said Rivara, “you mistake; ’Sandro 
is dead.” 

“ ’Sandro ? ’Sandro dead ?” 

“Murdered?” It was Frederick who broke in, remem- 
bering the landlord’s warning at Cisterna and drawing his 
inference. 

“Murdered, Your Highness.” The three were alone, mid- 
way between the living barrier drawn across the street and 
the group of guards clustered round the arched doorway 
of the palace, and Rivara’s voice, low-pitched, reached none 
but themselves. 

“You know me then ?” 

“I was in San Germano with the Cardinal, Your High- 
ness.” 

“Your Grace may trust Signor Rivara as you would 
Luca Alvano ; Sicily has no truer gentleman,” said Bianca. 
“But ’Sandro ! Oh, poor ’Sandro and poor Emilia ! Sig- 
nor Rivara, tell us ” 

“Hot here or now.” 

“Yes, here and now,” said Frederick, speaking with his 
old imperious authority. “There are larger issues at stake 
than a Roman murder, though the dead man be Alessandro 
Pandone. The guards? Let them stare; what more 
natural than that you should tell the news. When did this 
happen ?” 

“Four days ago, Your Grace.” 

“Forget that I am His Grace, you have my leave. As 
you can see, I am not in Rome as the Emperor. Why was 
murder done ?” 

“A month ago,” Rivara glanced up at Bianca, “the very 
day we arrived from Malazzorbo, some of the wild youths 
of the city ” 


m GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Alessandro Pandone amongst them?” 

“Alessandro Pandone amongst them,” and very briefly 
Rivara told the story of the drowning of Luigi Luti. “It 
was a foolish prank — hot blood that gives no thought to 
consequences, not evil for evil’s sake. But Luti died, and 
because the foolish lads trooped here for sanctuary, the 
mob’s memory fastened on Alessandro. Besides, he gave 
them cause to remember. Then His Holiness ” 

“Yes?” said Frederick, as Rivara paused. “His 
Holiness ?” 

“His Holiness told Rome some plain truths, and Rome, 
remembering the death of Luti, struck back through the man 
who had put Gregory where he is. The lad was waylaid — ” 

“Let the rest be,” said Frederick peremptorily. He had 
heard enough for his guidance. “Take the signorina to her 
cousin, then return to me. I will wait you in some private 
room of the palace.” 

“And my uncle?” 

“Say nothing to your uncle until I have talked with 
Signor Rivara. But remember, private grief must give way 
to the public need. That which we came to do in Rome 
must be done.” 

In an ante-room of the guard-house Frederick paced 
up and down, waiting Rivara’s return. Weighed carefully, 
the fall of events did not displease him. Death and Rome, 
two tremendous allies who knew each other of old, fought 
on his side. With the astute comprehension of the states- 
man, the man who thinks in nations and computes life by 
generations, he brushed aside surface appearances and saw 
Alessandro Pandone’s murder in its true significance — not 
the wild justice of a mob’s vengeance for a lad’s fatal folly, 
but a turbulent, discontented people striking upward in its 
sullen passion, striking as high as it dared, striking at the 
Cardinal because it dared not strike at the Pope, striking 
the son because it dared not strike the father, but all the 


ROME STRIKES BACK 


273 


while aiming its blow at the dominance of the Church. 
Surely, more than ever, Gregory would desire peace in Sicily. 

On Rivara’s return Frederick lost no time before putting 
his conclusions to the test. 

“Signor Rivara, in these last weeks I have come to re- 
spect a woman’s opinion as never before; that she tells me 
I may trust her is enough. No! add no protests; her 
word, I say, is enough.” He paused a moment, considering, 
then went on. “Her assurance means that, first of all, you 
are faithful to bread and salt. If that were not so, how 
could you be faithful to me — a stranger? Signor Rivara, 
as a Christian man I pledge my word that nothing I shall 
ask you is against your master’s interests nor the interests 
of His Holiness.” 

“Ask on, Your Grace.” 

The Emperor smiled. The laconism pleased him doubly ; 
it was so much to the point and it so unreservedly accepted 
his good faith. 

“This Luti, when was he drowned?” 

“The very day his late Holiness died.” 

“And young Pandone has gone freely about the streets of 
Rome ever since?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

“And until four days ago Rome raised no hand against 
him? Why?” But though Rivara accepted the Emperor’s 
disclaimer of hostility without demur, he conceived it no 
part of his duty to formulate theories which implied cen- 
sure, whether of the Cardinal, His Holiness, or Rome itself ; 
therefore he remained silent, and Frederick went on, put- 
ting his point more plainly : “The lad’s murder ; which was 
it in your opinion, revenge for Luti’s drowning, or Rome’s 
yarning that it resented the Pope’s truths?” 

“In part both,” answered Rivara slowly; “but I think 
had Alessandro not been his father’s son he would have 
been alive to-day.” 


274 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“And his father is son to the Church, with Gregory father 
of us all ! If I know anything of Gregory this may lose his 
Eminence favour at the Vatican.” 

Promptly Rivara prevaricated, perhaps because of his 
faithfulness to bread and salt. “Your Grace, would that 
count with a father whose son lies dead?” 

“When the father is Giordano Pandone,” began the 
Emperor; but without ceremony Rivara cut short the 
censure. 

“Your Grace, Emilia is my promised wife.” 

At the unaccustomed interruption Frederick had stif- 
fened. Now recognising the spirit which had prompted it 
he held out his hand frankly. “And you can listen to 
nothing but good of her father? Nor shall you. Son-in- 
law to His Eminence? No! I mean no disparagement, 
but I had thought the Cardinal looked higher than a simple 
gentleman, higher, and perhaps worse. It is common 
knowledge that he had ambitions.” 

“Four days ago shook them,” answered Rivara gravely. 

“And love was borne out of death — no, not love, but the 
crowning of love? It is the greatest thing in the world, 
Signor Rivara; happy are they who find it, let the crown- 
ing come how it may. Now, for Bianca’s sake, I will give 
you a hint — marry while the cool fit is on the Cardinal.” 

“But, Your Grace ” 

“You have been frank with me, as man to man; now I 
shall be frank with you. My purpose in Rome may bring 
back the Vatican favour to Pandone, may even make more 
assured the Cardinal’s hopes for the future; if so, will he 
hold to his promise? Will he still be content with a simple 
gentleman?” Frederick paused, then went on grimly: 
“It is also true it may damn him utterly, but if it does it 
will tear down greater things than a Cardinal. What is 
his mood ?” 

“But, Your Grace ” 


EOME STEIKES BACK 


275 


“Death of my life, man!” broke in Frederick impa- 
tiently. “Here am I meeting you on equal ground and 
you answer me with ifs and huts ! There’s more at stake 
than you or your Cardinal. Buts ! huts ! huts ! Caution can 
be too cautious. And to what end? In five minutes with 
him I’ll know his moods from end to end, so have done 
with your huts.” 

For a moment Eivara stiffened as the Emperor had done, 
then, and almost instantly, he recognised the justice of 
Frederick’s outburst; recognised, too, that he claimed no 
more than the truth when he said he could sift Pandone 
for himself, if so driven. 

“It shifts with the minutes, Your Grace; rage, despair, 
tears, resentment ” 

“Eesentment against whom?” 

“'His Holiness — the Church, even sometimes against 
Fate itself, I think.” 

Frederick was silent. With Alvano’s report fresh in his 
memory there was no need to probe deeper. Gregory had 
spoken plain truths to more than Eome — Alessandro Pan- 
done’s criminal folly had cast a stain upon the Church, and 
the Cardinal’s resentment was for the censure which en- 
dangered his own succession. Lay the Church under an 
obligation and be secure, Montelengo had said. But now 
disgrace threatened. All that the Emperor understood. 
The deduction was clear — there might be tears, there might 
be despair, but the death of the son had not killed the 
ambitions of the father. 

“Take me to him,” said Frederick. But midway up the 
broad marble stairway, with its borderings of garish brasses 
and mock antique sculptures, he paused to lay a hand on 
Eivara’s arm. “My friend, I warn you that my purpose 
in Eome may change many things — from the face of the 
world to the Cardinal’s mind; if you are wise you will 
marry to-day.” 


276 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“With death in the house ?” 

Frederick turned up the stairs. “Let the living be served. 
Life is warm substance, not a flicker of shadows. If the 
dead understand they will forgive, if they do not — ■” A 
fluttering gesture of his hand completed the sentence. 
What the dead do not understand cannot hurt them. 

And behind a closed door they passed upon their way. 
Emilia lay like a child in Bianca’s mothering arms, crying 
out her woman’s heart in a passion of tears which were not 
all born of sorrow. 

“Oh, the cruel, cruel cowards ! My poor ’Sandro ! How 
shall I live without ’Sandro ! I loved him so — loved him — 
loved him — loved him.” 

“But not as you love Cosimo.” 

The arms clipping Bianca round tightened their clasp, 
and Emilia looked up, a light in her eyes through the fall- 
ing tears. “Bianca, my father knows — he says I may 
marry Cosimo. Perhaps if they had not killed ’Sandro my 
father would never — oh, I am wicked to say that. But I 
do not mean what you think.” 

“Dear,” said Bianca, taking the tear-stained face between 
her palms, a face pitifully small and white, but sweet and 
winning even in its stark misery, “I think nothing but that 
Cosimo is Cosimo. Do you love ’Sandro less because you 
love Cosimo more? Thank God from the depths of your 
heart for a love that can cure loss, and that is stronger 
than death.” 


CHAPTEE XXX 


Cardinal Pandone is Persuaded 

Before a further door on the same corridor Eivara paused ; 
but with his hand raised to knock Frederick stayed him. 

“Save His Holiness I ask no man’s leave to enter. An- 
nounce me, neither more nor less, then go.” 

Without hesitation Eivara obeyed. Drawing the latch- 
string he pushed open the door, entered and stood aside 
for Frederick to pass. Then he said, very quietly, “His 
Highness, the Emperor, Your Eminence,” and slipping 
behind Frederick drew the door shut behind him. 

At the click of the latch Pandone, ceasing his uneasy 
walk up and down the room, turned, ready to voice his anger 
at the unpermitted disturbance. But even before Eivara 
spoke he recognized his visitor, and in his astonished sur- 
prise the rebuke froze unspoken. Where he had halted, 
there he stood, slack and irresolute, one hand mechanically 
playing with the roots of his beard below his mouth. 

Nor did Frederick speak until the door was shut, but 
walked leisurely on, his shrewd eyes searching the Cardi- 
nal’s troubled face. Then, with Eivara shut outside the 
room, he stretched out both hands in the frankest kindli- 
ness. If Pandone was to be stiffened into playing go- 
between with the Pope, his shaken self-confidence and com- 
fortable, warm complacency must first be restored. 

“The sorrow of it, my friend.” The Emperor’s voice 
was very gentle as he grasped Pandone’s hands in his firm 
clasp. “Only we, who are fathers, know the pangs of a 
father’s loss. It might have been my Henry — the lads were 
277 


278 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


not far from an age.” Slipping an arm across the rounded 
shoulders he led the Cardinal slowly the length of the room, 
bending towards him as they walked. 

“Comf ort ? Ah ! comfort is the gift of God, and He 
sends it to us in the heart of a friend. How did the poor 
lad die?” 

A convulsion shivered through Pandone. “Rome ! 
Rome ! Rome !” he cried weakly. But though the whim- 
pering wail was an anathema and an accusation rather than 
a reply Frederick did not repeat the question. It had 
served its purpose ; the Cardinal was shaken from the dull 
level of his lethargy. Once let passion be roused in him 
and he w r ould shape it to his own ends. 

“Forget Rome, forget your wrongs in the loving sym- 
pathy of your friends. And what tender sympathy it must 
be. There is the Holy Father, who owes, as all the world 
knows, his elevation to your disinterestedness ” 

“And forgets!” said Pandone, “ah, Dio mio, how easy 
it must be to forget a benefit.” 

“Then you and I, my friend, must rouse his memory.” 

But Pandone’s passion had died down: he was, as yet, 
too nerve-exhausted for sustained effort. 

“ ’Sandro is dead,” he said, weakening to tears, “dead — 
dead — dead.” 

Instantly Frederick grew sterner. A stronger stimulus 
than sentiment was needed to restore the mental and moral 
fibre. “Yes, ’Sandro is dead: but who is to avenge him? 
The Holy Father ? The Holy Father forgets ! Who, then ? 
Shall I tell you? You, Your Eminence, you, you your- 
self. Then, in the Conclave — all the world knows it — 
you stood aside that age might be honoured — age that so 
soon forgets ! But w r ho was to follow age when age failed ? 
Who but Giordano Pandone, who stood aside.” 

“No, Your Highness, no : there was no promise, no bar- 
gain.” Already the Cardinal’s voice had grown firmer. 


PAUDONE IS PERSUADED 


279 


“Promise? Bargain? Uo, neither: promises and bar- 
gains at such times are own brothers to simony and are 
forbidden by the Church. But was there a man of them all 
who did not say in his heart, Ugolino Conti is old — 
Giordano Pandone will be the next Pope? Colonna, per- 
haps ; Pelagius, perhaps ; and yet they, too, said it in their 
hearts; but while the others said it of goodwill Colonna 
and Pelagius said it with a grudge. Why? Because 
Colonna and Pelagius are of the nobles, as Gregory is of 
the nobles — Gregory, who forgets.” 

“No promise,” repeated the Cardinal, but in a changed 
tone. It was as if he admitted the spirit while denying 
the form. His eyes had brightened, he stood more erect 
and the tremulous mouth had ceased to tremble. 

“A forecast, then,” said Frederick. “But Gregory is of 
the nobles: to mistrust the people, to hold them under 
foot, is engrained in him. And you, Your Eminence ? All 
honour to the greatness of spirit that can rise superior to 
its clogging limitations; you are of the people: Gregory 
would rather see a Colonna of the nobles in St. Peter’s 
Chair than a Pandone of the people, and so this crushing 
private sorrow is turned to your public discredit. Gregory 
forgets! But Gregory’s debt remains and we must teach 
him to remember.” 

“We, Your Grace?” The stimulus worked. Pandone 
grew more the Prince of the Church with every sentence, 
but was too shrewd to insinuate the dignity to the Emperor 
as Ugolino Conti might have done. “Your Grace’s kind- 
ness shall never be forgotten — never !” 

“But, Your Eminence, you have just told me Popes have 
short memories.” Frederick’s voice, playful for a moment 
as he voiced the prophetic flattery, grew grave again. “I 
have a bargain to propose, but one without simony in 
it.” 

As if unconsciously Pandone withdrew himself from the 


280 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


arm that had lain across his shoulders and, a little apart, 
faced Frederick. 

“A bargain, Your Highness?” 

“No, I withdraw the word,” said the Emperor coldly, 
and with something like contempt. He saw that the cun- 
ning and suspicion born in the man’s peasant blood were 
aroused in a fear lest he be over-reached. “No bargain, 
but an honour to confer upon you because of my regard for 
your niece, Bianca.” 

“My niece, Bianca ?” repeated the Cardinal as Frederick 
paused. What would come next? Had Bianca succeeded, 
he wondered, but never asked himself at what cost. 

“She alone knows I am in Rome. Three days ago we 
two left Capua together ■” 

“Three days ago — Bianca? Ah! Your Grace, Your 
Grace — ” 

“Charity thinketh no evil,” said Frederick sternly. “Nor 
is there evil. The man who thinks a light thought of Bianca 
Pandone breeds it out of his own foul mind. Through her 
I am in Rome to-day for the peace of Christendom ; for her 
sake I offer you the gratitude of the Pope — of the whole 
Church : judge for yourself what that must mean when the 
next Conclave sits.” He paused again, then added abruptly, 
as if by an after thought, “There is one condition.” 

The Cardinal also paused before replying. The sluggish 
blood was running full tide in his veins. ’Sandro was, 
for the moment, forgotten as the cunning, nimble brain 
measured advantages, measured consequences, and found 
both tremendous almost beyond words. The conditions? 
Some gain to the Empire at the cost of the Church — a 
thing easily promised and as easily evaded when the next 
Conclave was ended, and the time came for fulfilment. 
He repeated the word questioningly, doubtfully, yet with 
an attempt at dignity. 

“Condition, Your Grace?” 


PANDONE IS PERSUADED 281 

“A pleasant one — that love shall have its way. Your 
niece is in her cousin’s confidence ” 

“Rivara?” Surprised and relieved though he was the 
Cardinal’s mind leaped forward. Already, as Frederick 
had foreseen, he repented of his promise. “But Signor 
Rivara is only a simple gentleman.” 

“And a Pope-to-be may look higher? True, and yet I, 
the Emperor, beg you to give love its way. As to Signor 
Rivara, his future shall be my care.” 

“Your Highness, such kindness ” 

“It is my debt to your house: is the condition ac- 
cepted ?” 

There was a short silence while they faced each other as 
duellists might whose blades touched. Pandone was weigh- 
ing the chances of temporising. With such prospects before 
him to marry Emilia to Rivara was sheer waste, and a 
promise to the Emperor could not be lightly broken, like a 
promise to a simple gentleman. Frederick, on his part, 
had a two-fold gain at issue — by the one stroke he deprived 
a possible Pope-to-be, and therefore an enemy to the Em- 
pire, of a powerful means of consolidating his influence in 
Italy, and attached his personal interest to the Empire 
through his son-in-law. 

“Is the condition accepted?” he repeated, and at the 
curter, colder tone, Pandone hastily gave way lest in grasp- 
ing at too much he should lose all. 

“How can I refuse Your Highness,” he said, his voice 
for the first time taking on its sonorous note. “Your 
Grace, I, too, have loved, and love never forgets its 
youth.” 

“Good ! There is one decision you will not regret on the 
day the world slips from you, as slip from us all it must. 
Now, nor will this breed regret either, go to the Vatican, 
say to His Holiness ” 

“Your Grace, he will refuse me, he will ” 


282 


GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


“Then refuse to be refused. God of my life, man, have 
you not a prescriptive right of audience ? Are you not the 
Cardinal of San Marco del Monte ? Assert yourself, assert 
yourself. The meek shall inherit the earth? In Rome 
it is mostly the mud of the kennel that falls to their 
share. You are not in favour? Aye, I know: that is part 
of Colonna’s plan. But they dare not shut you out lest 
they set up a precedent against themselves. Give them 
black look for black look: say curtly. It is the vital busi- 
ness of the Church, and if the Crusade fails the world will 
know where to set the blame. Be a man. Cardinal, be a 
man, not a whining priest.” 

“The Crusade, Your Highness ?” 

“Aye, the Crusade. Why else was Bianca in Sicily 
hunting cousins with the Pope’s approval? Why Arsoli? 
Why grey frocks and black frocks by the score, but to smell 
out news of the Crusade? We are not altogether fools in 
Capua. With news of the Crusade in your mouth will 
Gregory dare refuse you audience? Not for five seconds !” 

“What then, Your Grace?” 

“Then — phrase it how you will to your own advantage — 
say to His Holiness, you two being alone together, that 
Frederick of Hohenstaufen — not the Emperor, not the 
King of Sicily and Jerusalem, but Frederick of Hohen- 
staufen, a faithful and loving servant of the Church, is 
here in Rome, here under your roof — press it to your ad- 
vantage, Cardinal; you will know how — and crave speech 
with His Holiness.” 

“To what end, Your Grace?” 

“Your Eminence, if another could have said what is in 
my mind as well, or better, than myself, I would have sent 
della Yigna or Luca Alvano in my place. His Holiness can 
refuse me; yes, but Christendom will portion the blame 
for what must follow. I am indifferent, for that blame will 
not fall upon me.” 


PAUDONE IS PERSUADED 


283 


“But if he insists?” 

For a moment Frederick was silent, his face set to a 
frown of deep thought; when he spoke it was with stern 
solemnity. 

“Then I shall ride for Sicily to-day instead of to- 
morrow. Let come what may, before God my conscience 
is clear.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


The Victory of the Church 

“He will see Your Grace, but with conditions.” 

Almost three hours had passed since Pandone, in much 
physical fear and with many doubts, had quitted the palace 
secretly and strongly guarded. His fears were that Rome 
would recognise the father of ’Sandro. That the blood of 
the martyr may be the seed of the Church he did not deny, 
and went in terror lest the text should be put to the proof 
at his cost. But sitting well back in his litter, with the 
curtains drawn, he passed forth and back unmolested. 

Nor were his doubts justified. The Vatican was at all 
times a hot-bed of intrigue, the Pope himself or his influ- 
ence the prize of contending cliques. For the moment the 
party of Montelengo and Valsoldo, of which Pandone had 
been the head and hope, was out of favour, but though the 
Cardinal’s coming had caused something of a sensation 
amongst the followers of Colonna, grouped at the lower 
door of the Papal Palace, there had been no opposition to 
his entrance ; only Gregory himself could deny access to a 
member of the Sacred College. But there was no such 
friendly, obsequious welcome as on the day of Bianca’s 
visit; barely a cold respect was paid his dignity, and his 
coming was hurriedly announced in advance. 

If the reception at the outer door had been cold, the 
atmosphere of the Papal anteroom was freezing. Otho, 
warned in time, openly, almost ostentatiously, turned his 
back, and even the provincial bishop with whom he spoke 
dared not raise his eyes as Pandone entered, but gave all his 
284 


285 


VICTORY OF THE CHURCH 

attention to the Camerlengo’s sudden flow of friendly talk. 
As to the rest, whether cardinal, bishop, priest or layman, 
they either followed Otho’s example, or bowed with a 
wooden, expressionless stolidity. 

For a minute or two Pandone stood in his isolation, 
combing his beard with unconscious fingers. Some men 
insult spurs to aggression, some it cows, rousing the craven 
in them; the Cardinal was by nature of the latter, and 
events of the past four days had broken his nerve. But that 
he dared not return to face the Emperor’s scorn he would 
have accepted defeat there and then. It was the easier 
course, and to the weak man the ease of the moment has 
often fatal attractions. Then he remembered some of 
Frederick’s bitter phrases and grew afraid to be afraid, 
which is the next best thing to natural courage. The hand 
he laid on the Camerlengo’s shoulder shook no more than 
might reasonably be expected in a nervous man. Otho 
turned with a jerk. 

“Eh ? Oh ! It is you. Your Eminence.” 

“I, on the Church’s urgent business.” 

“Ah !” Otho’s voice, cold and antagonistic, grew sarcastic. 
“The Church already owes Your Eminence so much.” 

“And my friends are paying her debt.” Pandone, sono- 
rous and full-toned, was as cold and as bitter. “I trust, 
when all is clear, that her memory will be as good as mine. 
Cardinal Camerlengo, I must see His Holiness.” 

“Impossible ! The French Envoy is in audience.” 

“I shall wait.” 

“Useless, quite useless. Cardinal Castiglione follows by 
appointment.” 

“Still I shall wait.” 

“Again useless. By direction of His Holiness, my Lord 
Bishop of Ascoli is to be presented on his elevation,” and, 
a malicious smile in his faded eyes, Otho waved an airy 
hand towards his neighbour. 


286 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“The business of the Church comes first/ 5 said Pandone, 
his deep voice roughening. 

By this time all conversation amongst the many groups 
filling the room had ceased, and all faces were turned upon 
the disputants. Through many of the silent watchers there 
shot a thrill of surprise, almost of apprehension at the 
insistence of the Cardinal of San Marco del Monte’s last 
words. Here was a new Pandone, a stronger Pandone, a 
Pandone to be reckoned with; perhaps their openly hinted 
contempt had been premature. 

Otho took up the challenge with alacrity. 

“The business of the Church ?” he repeated. “To reward 
the love and pious zeal of her sons is in part the business 
of the Church, and therefore the Bishop of Ascoli follows 
His Eminence.” 

“Camerlengo, you take too much upon you.” 

“Do you censure His Holiness, Cardinal Pandone ? The 
appointment is his, not mine.” 

Then Pandone shot his bolt. “His Holiness would be 
the first to say that the Crusade takes precedence. Shut 
me out if you will, the Church — yes, all Christendom will 
know how to portion the blame if the Crusade is hindered. 
You are warned, and my conscience is clear. Fathers in 
God, signors, you are my witnesses,” and Pandone em- 
braced the circuit of the antechamber with a sweep of his 
hand at once dignified and appealing. 

The silence which followed was so intense that through 
the communicating door, fast shut and muffled by a thick 
curtain though it was, could be heard the voice of the 
French Envoy in a dull rumble. Otho had fallen back a 
step, and from his lesser height was looking up, dumb for 
the moment and not a little aghast, into Pandone’s pas- 
sionate face. The Crusade ? All knew how near the Cru- 
sade lay to Gregory’s heart. To hinder the Crusade was to 


VICTORY OF THE CHURCH 


287 


forfeit all favour. It was the newly-made Bishop of Ascoli 
who broke the stillness. 

“Your Eminence, I can wait,” he said, humbly. A coun- 
try priest, this was his first visit to Rome, and the great- 
ness of it, the greatness of the forces contending within it, 
frightened him. “My business is not important ” 

“It is not the importance of you or of your business,” 
broke in Otho tartly; “it is the Holy Father’s appoint- 
ment that matters.” 

“You are wrong,” said Pandone, greatly daring, but 
driven to assertion by memories of his interview with the 
Emperor. “What matters is the glory and advancement 
of the Church ; what matters is the sailing of the Crusade. 
Camerlengo, for the last time — I must see His Holiness, 
and see him alone.” 

From one of the groups in the middle of the room Car- 
dinal Perate detached himself, and taking the Cardinal 
Camerlengo by the arm led him aside. Perate had been a 
faithful adherent of Gregory’s in the Conclave, voting 
steadily for his election from the very first trial of strength, 
but he was a man with a cautious, cool head, and Pandone’s 
boldness had impressed him. When weakness oversteps its 
limitations it is a power to be reckoned with. For a 
moment they spoke earnestly together, then Perate turned 
to Pandone. 

“I have suggested, Father, that His Holiness should be 
appealed to ; the decision is his.” 

Pandone bowed. “I am content,” he said, his voice 
modulated to a gentle sweetness ; “my sole desire is to ease 
my conscience of its burden.” 

Thereafter there was but little freedom or conversation. 
For the most part men’s minds gnawed the problem of 
Pandone’s sudden self-assertion as a dog gnaws a bone too 
big for its jaws — it gains little by the gnawing yet cannot 
abandone the bone. One thing had resulted — the Cardi- 


288 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

rial’s isolation was at an end. Had he desired he might 
have been the centre of the largest group of them all. 

But to their uneasy consternation he kept himself apart, 
choosing out the stranger in Rome, the newly-made bishop 
from beyond the mountains. Him he charmed, setting him 
at his simple ease, until he forgot his purple and was that 
most enviable of men — a priest who loved his people and 
was beloved by them. 

It was not that ’Sandro was utterly forgotten, but before 
Pandone there hung the lure of the greatest power in the 
world, and in his desire to follow where it led he trampled 
himself underfoot. Once only he was interrupted. The 
envoy from France had been dismissed : did His Eminence 
desire to forestall Castiglione? But without hesitation 
Pandone waved the suggestion aside — Castiglione would 
have a vote in the next Conclave and might resent the 
super-session. 

But Castiglione having hastened his audience there was 
no further delay beyond the necessary explanation, and 
the obtaining Gregory’s formal consent to the change in 
ceremony. Nor did the Pope hesitate. Frederick’s 
shrewdness was justified and the way was clear. Involun- 
tarily Pandone braced himself to face the offended Pope 
and the door was shut, but what passed between them at 
their protracted interview was never known. 

“Conditions ?” repeated Frederick indignantly, when 
Pandone reported the result of his mission. “But that the 
peace of Christendom is at stake, I would reject them in 
advance and refuse to listen. The Emperor has a right of 
audience without conditions: as it is, name them.” 

“There are three.” The Cardinal’s reluctance was plain. 
“First, that you disarm.” 

“Disarm ?” The veins in the Emperor’s temples 
swelled to purple cords as the blood rushed to his face. 
“Am I an assassin like his monk of Saint Francis? But 


VICTORY OF TIIE CHURCH 


289 


of that you know nothing, nor do I blame His Holiness. 
Well, in the name of peace, I agree.” Drawing his sword 
with a rasp that set the blade quivering he laid it on a table 
and flung his dagger beside it. “There ! What next ?” 

“That you do not draw nearer to him than three paces.” 

“And this man was my friend ! Henceforth, the greater 
the distance between us the better! The length of Italy 
were not too great! and lastly?” 

“That you leave Rome within twenty-four hours.” 

“There he hits ofl my own desire. That, from the first, 
was my own intention. How, Cardinal, let us go.” 

“If Your Grace would condescend to share my litter?” 
Pandone ventured the suggestion diffidently, remembering 
how hotly the Emperor’s anger had so recently flamed at 
what strained his dignity. But Frederick only laughed 
harshly. 

“The honour is mine! A Pope-to-be conducting Fred- 
erick of Hohenstaufen to a Pope who shall not be for long ! 
It is written in the stars, Cardinal, that my debt to the 
House of Pandone shall be a great one, and it shall be 
greatly repaid. Let us go.” 

At the entrance to the Vatican there was neither delay 
nor ceremony. The only visible preparation, or sign that 
they were expected, was that the usual group of curious 
onlookers had been dispersed from before the doors, secur- 
ing secrecy, and that the Emperor and Pandone were 
instantly conducted to the ante-chamber. This, like the 
approaches to the palace, was void of strangers ; Otho only 
was in attendance, waiting silently before the door of com- 
munication. 

In silence he bowed to the Emperor, in silence slipped 
into the inner room to return almost instantly, in silence 
stood aside that Frederick, bareheaded for the first time, 
might enter. But when Pandone would have followed his 
guest the Camerlengo caught his arm. 


290 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“The Holy Father’s orders/’ he whispered, and the 
closing door shut them out. 

Gregory was seated upon a raised chair with his back to 
a window at the further end of the room. The curtains at 
either side of the casement were half drawn, so as to cast 
a shadow, but the light was ample. White robed, white 
faced, white coifed, his white hands folded in his white 
lap, the Pope resembled a marble statue of stern ascetic 
age, rather than a living man whose blood still ran riotously 
hot. He sat very erect, his thin shoulders squared, his chin 
raised, his eyes clear and shining under drawn brows. 
Midway, cutting the room in two, a silken cord stretched 
from wall to wall — it was the Pope’s “thus far and no 
farther.” 

Gregory was not alone. Behind him, one at each 
shoulder, but standing wide of his person, were Capoccio 
and Giovanni Colonna, Princes of the Church, Cardinals 
and priests, yet as keen and seasoned soldiers as Frederick 
himself. Now their trappings of war were discarded for the 
most sumptuous robes their high rank in the Church pro- 
vided, but it was the sight of the candles each carried flam- 
ing in broad daylight that sent despair thrilling to the Em- 
peror’s heart, as conviction broke upon him that his plea was 
doomed to refusal before ever he uttered it. They were sig- 
nificant, these candles, their very presence a threat: Greg- 
ory, Frederick told himself, had fathomed his purpose in 
coming to Rome and would grant no relief. The Crusade 
must sail or the Pope, Vicar of Christ and Vicegerent of 
God upon earth, would launch his anathemas, proclaiming 
excommunication, hurling interdict, and with all the illim- 
itable power of the Keys condemn him and his Empire 
to utter and outer darkness, even as these candles were 
quenched. 

All that, or the sense of it, Frederick understood even 
while his first comprehensive glance swept the room, but his 


VICTORY OF THE CHURCH 


291 


face gave no sign as he advanced midway to the barrier 
cord and paused. Further he would not go : his cause was 
already lost and every foot he drew nearer to the implac- 
able old man was a confession of weakness, a confession of 
the Empire’s necessity, and therefore an added laurel to 
the Pope’s arrogant pride. 

Gregory broke the silence. His thin, ironical voice was 
Arctic-cold, bitter us wormwood, hard as steel. 

“What zeal, my son! France sends an envoy, but you 
come in person to congratulate us on our elevation.” 

“Rather to congratulate the Church that her Head upon 
earth is so pious, so learned, so wise through experience and 
such a lover of Italy.” 

“Italy? Why Italy? To a good father all his sons are 
alike dear : the Church’s love, like her holy mission, is con- 
terminous with the ends of the earth.” 

“But Italy was very near the heart of Ugolino Conti.” 

“And all nations are the sons of Gregory’s affection. Is 
Your Highness in Rome to bring us news of the Crusade?” 

Frederick left the question unanswered. “My heart is not 
so large as Your Holiness’s : with me Sicily and the Empire 
come first. Holy Father, I am in Rome to plead for Sicily.” 

“Plead then.” Gregory’s voice was thinner, harder, 
colder, more ironical and sarcastic if that were possible. He 
bided his time. Rome had flouted him, threatening his 
prestige, and the prestige of the Church; but upon Sicily 
and the Empire he would demonstrate to Rome, and through 
Rome to all the world, that the Church had abated no jot of 
her claims, nor shed one tittle of her power to enforce them. 

“Holy Father, for ten years I have laboured in Sicily, 
suppressing evil, co-ordinating laws, ensuring peace, found- 
ing schools of learning, developing .resources, spreading 
commerce — a slow work, for nations are not built in a day. 
Now Sicily is like a tilled field, newly won from the grip of 
the wilderness ; the weeds and rank growths are cut down 


292 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


or rooted out, the soil trenched, the earth ridged for sowing 
and in part sown. But the hedges are weak, the land still 
raw and foul : if left to itself the tares and charlock of the 

past will sprout anew and poison ” 

“Must Christ’s sepulchre be trodden under foot by the 
heathen that Sicily may grow fat?” 

“Your Holiness, in a year — two at the most ” 

“Three times you swore an oath and three times cried 
the same cry — delay! delay! delay! till Honorius, over- 
gentle with your paltering, absolved you for the moment. 
But not I, Frederick of Hohenstaufen, Emperor for the 
day, not I. Your oath holds, or you stand forsworn and 
perjured before God and man. The Crusade must sail.” 

“Your Holiness, for my people’s sake ! It is for them I 
plead, not for myself. In a year — two at the most, with my 
work consolidated, secured against crumbling in my ab- 
sence, I can push the Crusade with a good heart ” 

“God grant me patience! Are you so bound to your 
Saracens, so blood-brother to Mahound, so handfasted to 
your Moslem women, your dancers and worse, so sunk in 
the slough of your evil delights, that you have no heart for 
the first and greatest work of a Christian man, even though 
he had sworn no oath at all before the face of the Almighty, 
and at His very altars? That oath holds, holds to the 
letter, or the outraged heart of the Church will cry aloud to 
heaven for judgment. What ?” The Pope paused. Shifting 
yet more upright in his chair he shook a bloodless hand 
above his head. His white face had paled yet whiter to the 
bleached suggestion of a drained corpse; but there was no 
failure of age in his voice, it grew fuller, rounder, stronger, 
as passion soared from smouldering heat to flame. “I 
thought I nurtured a child in the bosom of the Church, but 
it is a basilisk — a serpent to sting her heart. From your 
first cry of life the Church has yearned over you as a 
mother over her first-born, the child of her early love ; she 


VICTORY OF THE CHURCH 


293 


has dandled you on her knees, borne you on her shoulder, 
fed you at her breast. Now, grown to a man’s stature, you 
make mock of her sacred mysteries and profane her holy 
altar with false oaths. But, beware, Frederick of Hohen- 
staufen, beware how you press the indulgence of our love 
over far. Am I a dumb dog who dare not bark? By the 
might of God given me at the hand of His Spirit, beware 
lest I not only bark but bite ! Thrice you have sworn and 
thrice shamelessly evaded fulfilment of your vows. But the 
patience of your nursing-mother is at an end. If to the 
three false oaths you add a fourth, then, by the great name 
of Him by whose will I am wdiat I am ” 

“Nur sing-mother !” broke in the Emperor, unable longer 
to restrain his growing wrath. “No mother, but a step- 
mother, cold, callous, calculating, greedy of her own gain 
and careful of her own profit. Is Christian charity dried up 
at the fount that you have no pity for Sicily ? Pity ? No ! 
for in the name of charity you, or the Church whose head 
you are, sucked Sicily as a ripe orange. Under plea of a 
lad’s vow you kill the growth which through peace might 
become too strong for your fears. In humble words of 
mock humility you call yourself the Servant of servants, 
and in the same breath claim lordship over Kings and 
Emperors to the very ends of the earth — you, who cannot 
keep in check your handful of near-by Romans for one 
short month!” 

At the final reproach, a barb pointed in bitterness and 
winged by truth, the furious Pope could contain his pas- 
sion no longer. Shaking as if with a palsy he pushed him- 
self upright from his chair, his white, meagre figure tower- 
ing from its elevation over the angry Emperor. 

“Infidel — perverter of truth — heretic ” 

“Heretic? Must God be for ever silent because you 
have spoken?” 

“No more! no more! I’ll hear no more! It is poison 


294 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


in our ears — poison — poison.” Groping blindly back upon 
each side Gregory reached for the candles, caught them in 
a passionate, convulsive clutch, and thrust them out before 
him with hands that so wavered and trembled that the 
guttering lights burned blue as they wheeled in the air. 
“Frederick of Hohenstaufen, Rome crowned and Rome can 
uncrown. Beware lest the Mene , Tele el, Upharsin sounds 
in your ears. I give you your choice : The Crusade on the 
day appointed, or, by the living God, Anathema — Inter- 
dict — Excommunication on you and all your people.” 

Again the silence was tense. In the heat of his excite- 
ment the Emperor, forgetting his resolution, had advanced 
as far as the dividing cord and now stood gripping it with 
both hands, looking fiercely up into the white face of the 
Pope as he reared the candles above his head, ready to dash 
them to darkness on the marble floor and hurl his curse 
with them. In his bitter wrath Frederick would gladly have 
given half the years of his life to fling back a defiance and 
bid Rome do her worst. But he knew he had been worsted 
in the struggle: how can the powers of this world fight 
against those of the world to come ? 

“The Crusade will sail,” he said, turning his back. 

Capocci and Colonna caught at the swaying candles as 
the Pope sank into his chair with a shivering sigh: the 
•victory was won, the Church triumphant, the Empire 
humbled, but the battle had sapped his strength and the 
burden of his more than eighty years was heavy upon him. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


The End of Doubt 

Back in the Pandone palace Frederick shut himself up in 
the private apartment allotted to him, denying himself to 
all men and refusing meat or drink though the hour of 
dinner had long passed. Of that time of mental stress, 
when he trampled his humiliation under foot and built 
anew his shattered plans for Sicily, he never spoke. It may 
be that the sailing of the Crusade on the appointed day, 
only to return before ever the coast of Palestine was sighted, 
thus conforming in the letter but holding to his own pur- 
poses in the spirit, was a decision of that dark hour. That 
the Crusade did so sail and so return are undisputed truths 
of history, the wherefore of its return is in doubt. 

But that is not of this story. In the end Rivara was 
summoned. 

"I leave Rome at day-break,” said Frederick briefly. 
“I beg you will see that my horse is ready.” 

“What escort shall I order, Your Grace?” 

“None.” 

“But, Your Grace,” protested Rivara, “it is not fit- 
ting ” 

“Fitting? Frederick of Hohenstaufen needs no escort 
and for the Emperor you have none adequate: I ride 
alone.” He paused a moment, then added, “If the Sig- 
norina Pandone will set me on my way I shall be yet deeper 
in her debt. I make no doubt she will. Follow us at a 
distance, Signor Rivara, just yourself alone, and see her 
safely back to the city.” 


295 


296 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

“But she earnestly desires to see Your Grace. She has 
begged me ” 

“Not to-day.” Frederick was peremptory. “Many 
things cry out for decision and I must be alone. The Pope 
has flung all our lives into the melting-pot. Tell her the 
Crusade will sail ; she will understand.” He paused again, 
thinking deeply ; when he looked up his grey eyes had a hint 
of humour in them. “My friend, it is borne in upon me 
that you will never call a Pope father ! After to-day they 
will think Pandone too much the friend of the Empire.” 

“So long as I call the Cardinal father,” began Rivara; 
but Frederick silenced him with a gesture. 

“Have no doubt of that. It is not just that I hold his 
word, and have promised to secure your future: Pope 
Giordano might forget Cardinal Pandone as Gregory has 
forgotten Ugolino Conti; but as things are, an honourable 
gentleman, secure in the service of the Emperor, is no bad 
match.” 

“Your Highness,” cried Rivara, “how can I thank you ; 
what have I done ” 

“You? Nothing! Thank Bianca — thank your wife to 
be that she won her cousin’s love. And yet I am wrong; 
to have compelled a good and almost great woman’s faith, 
so that she trusts you as herself is so much that in winning 
your service the Emperor will have the best of the bargain. 
Now take my message to Bianca and send me some food: 
if His Eminence desires to see me crave his indulgence 
until to-morrow morning.” 

With the dawn still grey Frederick made ready to depart, 
but not from the main gate of the palace lest, riding un- 
guarded, he should provoke attack by the malcontents of 
Rome. Bianca rode with him, Rivara would follow; 
beyond these only the Cardinal and Emilia were present, 
with Jacopo holding the horses. Bianca was pale with the 
pallor of a sleepless night, but the Emperor’s strong, ruddy 


THE END OF DOUBT 


297 


face showed no signs of the past day’s storms : he knew the 
worst and, with characteristic resolution, his unconquered 
spirit rose, eager to grapple and defeat the added odds. 
Frederick was of that giant breed whom contact with 
Mother Earth made stronger. 

“ Let happen what may, Cardinal, while I live the Em- 
pire will never forget the debt to your house. Young 
mistress, I give you this advice — marry quickly and come 
south : history is in the making and great deeds lie at the 
door of to-morrow. Sorrow ? Aye, I know and grieve for 
your sorrow with all my heart; but love is God’s cure for 
sorrow and every other ill upon earth. Eivara, mount 
Bianca. Farewell, Your Eminence, my last word to you is. 
Beard Gregory, publish everywhere that through you has 
come deliverance from doubt. The Church may be grate- 
ful — perhaps. Now, Bianca, let us go.” 

Mounting, the Emperor rode forward by the girl’s side, 
but turned at a bend in the narrow lane to uncover and 
wave his final farewell; Eivara was preparing to mount. 
Until a main street was reached neither spoke, then Bianca 
said abruptly, but with such a catch in the throat that the 
three words were almost strangled to a sob, 

“Failure, Your Grace?” 

“Failure?” he repeated cheerily. “No! no failure: 
failure is final and this is but a check. We still march 
breast forward, Sicily and I.” For a time he rode in 
silence, letting his horse pick his own way and choose his 
own pace. His thoughts were in that melting-pot where all 
their lives were fusing that they might be moulded afresh : 
when he spoke it was in the slow tone of conviction. “There 
will never be a Pandone Pope ; God grant the grey old wolf 
a long tether; whoever succeeds him will be a good hater 
of the Empire, that much is clear.” 

The girl made no reply. A profound and bitter resent- 
ment stirred her to her depths, heart and soul. That there 


298 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 

never would be a Pandone Pope touched her not at all, but 
if Gregory’s far off successor must needs be an enemy to 
the Empire then Luca Alvano was selling himself for 
nought, and that is always a devil’s bargain, let it be in 
whose name it may. She could have borne to see him mount 
from greatness to greatness in a splendid cause: in some 
calmer day she could, perhaps, have gloried in his exaltation 
to that greatest greatness, the Headship of the Church, 
content to know that Italy would bless his name as the 
Peace-bringer while time lasted. But to dream such 
splendid dreams and wake to a barren selling of the life, 
heart and soul, for nought, filled her with rebellion. Hot 
in her passionate resentment she looked aside at Frederick, 
but he rode dumbly on, his face inscrutable. 

There were few abroad in the streets. Not only was it 
the hour when the prowlers, born of the very greatness of 
a great city, creatures of rapine who haunt its lanes and 
alleys, seek their lairs, driven grudgingly to cover by the 
honest light of day, but Rome, restless, insolently greedy 
Rome was calmer. With the Church’s prestige secured in 
the south and before all the world by his victory over the 
Empire, Gregory had thought it politic to purchase peace 
at his gates by a fresh donative. The Pope’s grace had been 
announced the night before, and with this new bone to 
mumble Rome had ceased to growl: had Alessandro Pan- 
done still lived he might have swaggered unmolested as of 
old. At the San Giovanni gate there was no challenge: 
when there was no hue and cry abroad whoso desired might 
leave Rome and welcome. 

Once beyond the walls and clear of the city Frederick, 
who sat his horse more like a dumb image than a living 
man, broke the silence. 

“Bianca, I ride to Capua, but what will you do?” 

“I ?” Bianca started. Poor soul, her thoughts had been 
in Sicily, living bitter-sweet memories over again. If she 


THE END OE DOTJBT 


299 


had put these thoughts in words it would have been “Oh, 
death in life, the days that are no more.” “I don’t under- 
stand, Your Grace.” 

“You will bide in Rome with your uncle and cousin?” 

“No, Your Grace; I shall return to Malazzorbo; Cosimo 
has promised to see me safe.” 

“My advice is, stay in Rome.” 

“No,” she repeated, with her old decision. “I must go 
to my own people whose love was always warm about me 
though I knew it so little that I never gave God thanks.” 

“Love is in Rome.” 

“Emilia has Cosimo, she does not need me. I shall go 
back to Malazzorbo.” 

“Then Luca Alvano will have the longer ride, that is all.” 

“Luca?” she repeated, the pallor of the night’s vigil 
banished on the instant, “why should Luca ride — any- 
where ?” 

“For the best cause in the world.” Frederick’s eyes soft- 
ened though the slow gravity of his voice never changed. 
Hard, iron- willed, cruel even, as became his times, there was 
always a strong thread of sentiment through his tough 
fibre, else how could he have been the poet and Art-lover 
he was? “We dreamed a dream, he and I, but Gregory has 
awakened me to realities. There never can be an Alvano 
Pope any more than a Pandone, and so I think Luca will 
ride to Malazzorbo. Now will you bide in Rome?” 

“No,” she answered steadily, “I go back to Malazzorbo. 
The love we know is better than the love we may never 
know.” 

Though the flush was still on her cheek, the light that 
had leaped to the eyes when the significance of Frederick’s 
meaning grew clear had died away. Her own farewell 
words, Henceforth you go your way and I go mine, and the 
interpretation Luca Alvano would put upon them and her 
absence in the Emperor’s company stood between her and 


300 GEEATEE THAN THE GEEATEST 

hope. More than the love of Tita and Giuseppi Sirani, 
strong magnet though it was, drew her to Malazzorbo. 
There she could ease the pain of her soul by the labour of 
her hands ; not by many millions would she be the first to 
cry, Blessed be toil ! In Eome she could but let the twin 
mill-stones of heart and spirit grind each other to torment, 
with Emilia’s happy love before her eyes to make plain her 
loss — every way Malazzorbo would be better. 

Frederick urged her no further. There were times, he 
knew, when a woman’s no was final. Commonly it is when 
her pride is touched, as Bianca Pandone’s was then. Neither 
did he break into other and more trivial talk. It was to 
say this one thing he had brought her out from Eome: 
having said it and failed he rode in silence, his thoughts 
elsewhere. It is one of sincere friendship’s lighter privi- 
leges that silence is not an offence. It was his purpose to 
ride as far as where the roads joined and there bid her 
farewell. 

So dumbly riding, his thoughts in Sicily, the watchful- 
ness which never sleeps in the trained soldier became aware 
of a landmark of yesterday — a grey old church crowned by a 
slender square tower whose Eoman cross bore a giant lance 
shaft. Half unconsciously he slackened pace, his eyes, 
keenly vigilant, roaming from the shrine on the right to the 
Dominus mens et Deus mens over the main door, and 
thence to a great chestnut in full leaf upon the left, and he 
started in the saddle, drawing rein suddenly. Under the 
shade of the tree a horse was tethered: after a second 
scrutiny Frederick turned to Bianca, who also had halted. 

“Gregory called me a heretic and was wrong. I am a man 
who dares to think, a man who believes God is not dumb, 
nor will be while the world lasts, that is all. Our roads 
are uncertain before us, let us go together and pray God 
for our heart’s desire — if so be it please Him to grant it.” 

“Our heart’s desire?” she repeated, looking across at 


THE END OF DOUBT 301 

him, and as she spoke her eyes filled. Her heart and its 
desire were so far apart. 

“Why not? It is God’s world still and a check is not 
failure. While there is life no disappointment is final.” 

“Oh!” she cried, “and they call you heretic!” and fol- 
lowed him to the shade of the chestnut where bridle-rings 
were hung that wayfarers, whose roads were uncertain, 
might pause and do this very thing. 

In silence Frederick haltered the beasts, in silence dis- 
mounted her, and in silence they climbed the steps to the 
church door, closed only by its heavy leathern curtain: 
Rivara, in the distance, rode slowly to the shade of the tree 
and waited. 

The church was very still, very dim; as yet the sun was 
to the east and the coloured rays from the rose window set 
in the apse were quenched by the broad bulk of the high 
altar : through the clerestory but little light flickered as yet. 
To right and left, dividing the nave from the flanking 
aisles, heavy square pillars, built up of blocks of travertine, 
supported the groined roof. Before the altar a single hang- 
ing lamp burned like a fixed star, paling before the daylight 
as stars pale, and beneath it, at the very rails, his head rest- 
ing upon his folded arms, knelt the church’s sole wor- 
shipper. 

Dropping the curtain behind them the Emperor motioned 
Bianca to go forward, and side by side they advanced down 
the empty nave to the altar-steps: there they knelt, and 
Bianca, sinking back, bowed her head between her hands. 

The heart’s desire ! A phrase easily said, but how hard 
to find a form of words to clothe it with full expression. 
For the desire of any human heart, however single, shifts 
with the changing thought as the rainbow lights of a dia- 
mond shift from red to violet as it is turned in the hand, 
always the same diamond but never the same glory. For 
the moment her heart’s desire was for peace, for nothing so 


302 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


much as to be at rest from the gnawing fret of her sorrow ; 
but in the divided fragment of a second peace had blazed 
from the calm light of negation to the glowing passion of 
her love for Luca Alvano, for there, in the fulness of that 
love’s gladness lay her life’s true peace. 

“Thou knowest, God !” she said under her breath, but 
with a sob. Three words only, yet enough; for what God 
knows is surely prayer to the fullest. “Thou knowest — 
Thou knowest!” and raised her eyes to look in spirit 
beyond the grey groining of the ancient roof to the blue 
heavens it blotted out, and saw Luca Alvano himself stand- 
ing by the altar-rails. 

From where he knelt at her side Frederick rose, holding 
out a hand to assist her to her feet. 

“Come,” he said briefly: “you, too, Alvano,” and led 
the way to a door on the right of the choir. With a mind 
that leaped forward at this very moment he had noted it 
on their slow advance down the nave. 

It was, as he had supposed, the sacristy. Within, a 
priest was robing for prime : to him Frederick turned. 

“Father, of your courtesy give place a while. Oh, have 
no fear ; a robber of churches would not have kept vigil all 
night long as one of us has done. Besides, that door to 
the outside is locked, take the key and keep guard yourself 
in the church.” But with the clicking of the latch as the 
priest, after a brief pause of hesitation, obeyed, his manner 
changed and the smooth graciousness dried out of the voice. 
“Alvano, how comes it that you, whom I left in Capua, 
are found in Rome ?” 

A biting retort rose to Alvano’s lips, an acid contempt 
that would sear both listeners in the one instant. But it 
died unuttered, killed in part by an astonished bewilder- 
ment and in part by respect and ancient custom. 

“The business of Sicily brought me. Your Grace.” 

“And for Sicily you keep vigil as a priest-to-be keeps it ?” 


THE END OF DOUBT 


303 


“It was so arranged, Your Grace.” 

“So arranged the night you told me that for you there 
was no one woman in the world : you remember ? I see you 
do. Answer me now, you who have kept vigil all night long 
before God’s altar, has there been no such woman since 
then ? and was there no such woman in your thoughts even 
as you knelt there?” 

Again the scathing retort that should rebuke and wither 
hypocrisy rose to Alvano’s lips, yet unconsciously his eyes 
shifted to Bianca and the words died unsaid. Her face, 
weary with the weariness born of heart-ache, was pale and 
sorrowful, but her eyes met his tranquilly and unafraid. If 
there was an appeal in them it was not for mercy but com- 
prehension. Because of that appeal he answered obliquely. 

“Your Grace is familiar with the old books. Once there 
was a king’s servant who nursed a lamb in his bosom; but 
the king, his master •” 

“In God’s name, hold your peace lest you shame yourself 
past your own forgiveness ! Could you believe that of your 
friend? That same God knows I am not perfect — there 
never was but one perfect man and him the world crucified 
— but I am not so vile as that.” 

Alvano’s face grew stern. “I was in the garden the 
morning of the day you left Capua — and you did not leave 
alone.” 

“And did you hear me say, ‘Have no fear, Bianca, my 
sister ?’ or her answer, Hf I had fear would I be in Capua 
at all ? My soul is my own !’ Go down on your knees and 
thank God there are women too good for men to under- 
stand, yet not too good to love us through our failures, Him 
be praised ! Yes ; for Sicily’s sake we left Capua together, 
rode to Borne together that through Pandone I might see 
your old grey wolf, Gregory, and plead for my people. And 
I have seen him. Frangipani was right: there can never 
be an Imperialistic Pope — that dream is over, and being 


304 GREATER THAN THE GREATEST 


over Sicily needs the soldier, not the priest. Now answer 
me again; was there — is there, one supreme woman in the 
world ?” 

Without reply Alvano looked from one to the other. 
Full comprehension came slowly, but with its coming his 
sternness broke down, and with the cry, “Bianca,” he 
stretched out both hands. Instantly she caught them in 
hers and for a moment they were as if the world was not. 
Then said Frederick, 

“Glory and Greatness! But greater than greatness is 
Love.” 


THE END 


Recent 

Historical 

Fiction 

by 

Well-known 

Authors 


( 22 ) 


SHALLOWS 

BY 

FREDERICK WATSON 

Mr. Watson has unearthed an inter- 
esting and unhackneyed episode of the 
later years of Prince Charles Stuart — the 
“ Bonnie Prince Charlie” of song and 
story. It is woven into a romance un- 
usually full of atmosphere. It has a som- 
bre background due to the growing dis- 
illusionment of the Pretender’s followers. 
There is a nakedly truthful picture of the 
characters of the hunted plotters. But 
the shadow only throws into brighter 
contrast its story of love and courage. 
There may be some who will pick up the 
book out of curiosity to compare it with 
“ Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush,” by Ian 
Maclaren, the author’s father, but they 
will finish it for its own sake for the inter- 
est of the story. 


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( 21 ) 



Marjorie Bowens Historical Novels 

The William of Orange 
Trilogy: 

Dealing with the Life of William of Orange, 

AFTERWARDS WlLLI AM III OF ENGLAND 

I Will Maintain 
Defender of the Faith 
God and the King 

She has written an historical romance that is 
absolutely thrilling. — Punch . 

Miss Bowen is one of the handful who count. 

— Illustrated London News. 
Vivid coloring and picturesque treatment are 
always features of Miss Bowen’s work. 

— Pall Mall Gazette. 
Miss Bowen has put an ardor of historical 
research into her work. ... Of decided historical 
and dramatic interest. — Continent. 

None of the usual charges against historical 
novels can be made against Marjorie Bowen’s. 

— New York Evening Post. 
In the front rank of present-day historical 
romance writers. — London Daily Mail. 

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( 25 ) 



Marjorie Botoeris- New Historical Trilogy 

Prince and Heretic 

This fascinating story begins with William 
the Silent’s marriage to Anne of Saxony and ends 
with his riding into exile after his first armed 
clash with Philip of Spain. The author develops 
her novel with an art that is a potent blend of 
the historian’s careful attention to detail and the 
novelist’s skill in vivid character delineation. 

This book is doubly interesting at this time in 
that it brings home to the reader the fact that 
Belgium has been the battle ground of Europe 
on more than one occasion. 


William, by the Grace 
of God 

The William of this stirring historical romance 
is William, Prince of Orange, better known to 
history as “ William the Silent,” who led the 
successful revolt of the Netherlands against the 
bloody tyranny of Alva and Philip of Spain. 
Miss Bowen, who has no living equal in the art 
of creating historical atmosphere, has drawn her 
hero with dignity and charm and made live again 
the heroes and statesmen who created, after 
years of suffering and struggle, the Dutch Re- 
public. 

Third Novel of this Series to follow 


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( 26 ) 


Marjorie Bowens Historical Novels 

The Quest of Glory 

The scene is laid in France in the reign of Louis XV. 
The story, which opens with the retreat from Prague, deals 
with the adventures of the Marquis de Vauvenargues, the 
young officer of the “ regiment du roi ” who became one 
of the loftiest of French philosophers and a notable writer 
of a famous literary decade. The story shows how the 
young aristocrat, after the tumults of a brief, sad life, 
found glory and peace in a Parisian garret. Among the 
characters are Louis XV, Voltaire and the Due de Richelieu. 

The Governor of England 

A romance in which is played the whole tragedy of 
Cromwell’s dealings with Parliament and King. It is 
written with dignity and conviction, and with the author’s 
characteristic power of grasping the essential details needed 
to supply life and color and atmosphere for the reader of the 
standard histories. 

The Carnival of Florence 

A tale of Italy in the XV century, in which the central 
figure is Savonarola. The story is full of the overflowing 
life and color of the period of the Medicis, and by reason 
of the author’s vivid descriptions reminds one of a piece 
of tapestry, crowded with figures in picturesque costumes, 
with the towers and palaces of the fair city lying in the 
distance. 

The Third Estate 

A spirited and vivid romance of the French Revolution, 
in which the hero is the wicked and fascinating Marquis 
de Sarcey. The story depicts the struggle between the 
nobility and the Third Estate, and the reader is carried 
through the stirring scenes of this interesting period, feel- 
ing, after he has finished the book, that he has actually 
lived in them. 

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( 27 ) 



Marjorie Bowens Remarkable Short Stories 
and Sketches of Historical Characters 

Shadows of Yesterday 

Stories from an Old Catalogue 

An old museum in Naples has suggested to 
Marjorie Bowen a group of short stories. Cruci- 
fix, scimitar, porridge bowl, a pitcher, a ring, 
a bodice — these varied objects typify the wealth 
of romantic incident in these tales of different 
countries and eras. Scottish Jacobite or Spanish 
Morisco, weak, wicked or loyal, the figures seem 
to step out in turn from “ the shadows ” into the 
light of real life. It might be possible to choose 
a favorite story among the group of twelve, but 
not to say which is the best, for the same inde- 
scribable glamour is in them all. 

God’s Playthings 

This series of wonderfully vivid flashes of the 
romance and characters of past days is a store- 
house of stimulating imagination to any reader 
who has the slightest historical instinct. The 
author displays the bewildering contrast between 
the heights of human power and luxury and the 
depths of squalor and degradation into which 
Fortune’s favorites have often so suddenly fallen, 
and the brilliancy of her descriptions render her 
book a very remarkable piece of work. 

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( 28 ) 


The 

Highwayman 

BY 

H. C. BAILEY 

A tale of the days of Good Queen Anne. 
Across the pages flit the Queen, the great 
Duke of Marlborough, and, almost the last 
of his ill-fated race, James Stuart the Old 
Pretender — all these serve but for a back- 
ground against which is shown as gallant 
a romance of villainy, misunderstanding, 
and high-hearted love as ever made crowns 
and kingdoms seem of little worth. 

“ The author distributes dialogue and narra- 
tive in readable proportion, he understands the 
effective use of detail and has an uncommon 
facility in description, and he writes in an easy, 
assured style with a dash of wit that stamps his 
work at once as out of the ordinary.” 

— The Living Age. 


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( 30 ) 



El Supremo 

A Romance of the Great Dictator of Paraguay 

By 

EDWARD LUCAS WHITE 

This romance of South America, scened in a 
picturesque and strenuous place and time, 
plunges the reader with its first lines into a fas- 
cinating life full of gorgeous coloring, quaint 
incident, plotting and love-making, and brings 
him into intimate acquaintance with one of the 
most puzzling, interesting and forceful of all 
historical figures. 

PRESS COMMENTS: 

“ * El Supremo ’ is fiction upon the heroic scale and in 
Something very like the grand manner.” — Nation. 

“ This book may fairly be described as extraordinary.” 

— New York Evening Post. 

“ The novel is one to read all day and all night until 
it is finished .” — The Independent. 

I “ ‘ El Supremo ’ is unquestionably a novel of great im- 
portance .” — The Boston Transcript. 

u * El Supremo ’ is well worth the attention of even those 
people too busy to do much reading .” — The Catholic World. 

“ You meet in this book more gay and delightful people 
and incidentally more conspirators than you may ever 
have met in a book before .” — Chicago Evening Post. 

“ The picture of the life of ease and gracious hospitality 
among the old Spaniards is delightful .” — New York Sun. 


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( 23 ) 


The 

Unwilling Vestal 

A Novel of Rome under the Caesars 

BY 

EDWARD LUCAS WHITE 

l Author of “ El Supremo ” 

As the author’s El Supremo gives a picture of 
a strange people, a peculiar period and a great 
man, thus adding to the reading public’s oppor- 
tunity to see and enjoy the world at large, so 
The Unwilling Vestal gives a complete picture of 
one of the world’s most unique and notable in- 
stitutions. 

This book presents, for the first time in fiction, 
a correct and adequate account of the Vestal 
Virgins, their powers and privileges, as well as of 
many strange Roman customs and beliefs. The 
author combines the power of writing a rattling 
good story with a sound and full knowledge of 
conditions of the life which he is depicting. Mr. 
White brings to the history of Rome all the pic- 
turesqueness and power which made his South 
American novel so remarkable. 


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(24 



The 

Royal Outlaw 

BY 

CHARLES B. HUDSON 

We are so accustomed to relegate the 
Bible to the Sunday-school students and 
the clergy, that we often fail to realize 
how much of romance and adventure 
there is within its pages. 

Around the story of David when per- 
secuted by King Saul, Captain Hudson 
has written one of the most stirring and 
romantic tales of military adventure and 
heroic escapade that has appeared in 
many years. 

Told through the mouth of one of David’s 
veteran men-at-arms, it is permeated with 
a jollity and a freakish humor that makes 
the people of those ancient and strenuous 
times our fellow-beings and friends. 


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